


sealed with a kiss

by megamegaturtle



Category: Trolls (2016)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Human AU, Humor, Modern magic AU, Mutual Pining, Sexual Tension, Sharing a Bed, Witches, Wizards, dreams that kinda lead you to your soulmate, pretty words, sorta - Freeform, witch's familiar au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-09-21
Packaged: 2018-11-30 16:58:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11467788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megamegaturtle/pseuds/megamegaturtle
Summary: [a witch's familiar au]When Branch woke up this morning, he didn't think it would be in Poppy's bed.Her screams say otherwise.(Or are those his screams instead?)





	1. a dream is a wish your heart makes

It’s the soft pink glow that illuminates in the distance—a kiss, a promise, a something that sings of new beginnings. A sunrise where pink spans the sky, the rosy rays glistening as he takes one step forward, then shuffles two steps back. The nothingness in his dream is long gone, replaced by gilded _something_ and swells in his chest.

A beat, a thud, a—is it maybe fate perhaps? Reaching out, palm face up with hope that there is no danger lurking in its touch. An outline of a mouth forms, a smile even, leans forwards and presses its lips to his forehead.

 _You’re mine_ , it whispers. _Mine_.

They reverberate through his veins, down his spine, into his very soul.

 _Yours,_ he says. _Yours_.

And he means it.

He’s floating, the clouds hazing their world as he takes their hand, the fingers slim as they lace theirs with his. He’s tugged into a dance, into a simple waltz, following the flow of a calm breeze. Music echoes as they twirl together, bliss blooming, almost as if his heart is going to spill out of his chest.

Warmth seeps from their touch, sinking into his bloodstream, his head feeling light. They dance as the sun rises, the pinks reaching out, painting the sky a subtle lavender as it crawls closer tonight. Stars pepper the twilight sky, the moon and sun existing in the same moment as the two of them do.

Branch and _____.

(A name, one that he knows, on the tip of his tongue, on the tip of his soul.)

* * *

His dream bubble pops and Branch wakes up, swallowing a deep breath. Burning holly perfumes the air, the scent of ash and flame lingering as he blinks himself to the present. His heart hammers in his chest, unwilling to forget the gentleness of his premonition. _Love_ , he thinks. _That’s what love is_.

He swallows again.

 _I don’t know what kind of love...but that was...that was love_.

(Reminds him of when he was a child, back when the world was bright and pure.)

He lets reality settle back into his bones as he looks at his peers as seconds tick. One breath, then two; in then out.  It’s rare that everyone gathers for lessons now that they are older. They are adults crafting their own magic, their own paths in the world, however—

Not all magic can be learned alone. Nor can it be performed alone.

(Dream bubbles continue to gleam, keep people in what ifs and maybes and perhapses.)

Leaning back in his seat, Branch surveys the room, curious to know about everyone else’s dream bubbles. They’re odd—bright things that glow with worlds unknown. Whatever his peers dream about, he’s not too sure, but he knows that the future is what they see.

Branch still feels like he’s back in school with loud classmates and uncomfortable seats, the hard plastic making his belt dig into his skin. He waits for the teacher as he finished the assignment faster again compared to everyone else. He feels weird, a tightness pulling him in every direction as the past seems to repeat. He swallows again, ignoring the unease that’s enveloped him and lets his mind wander towards something more palatable.  

He thinks back to the pink of the dream, the soft glow that was kind and sweet. Gentle, loving, caring—it squeezes his heart, a tight feeling in his chest, the idea of that possibility because—well, no.

He won’t let himself hope.

Can’t.

Damn if he doesn’t look over to _her_ anyway. She’s sitting right across from him after all. She looks peaceful.  Her dream bubble is a stormy blue, shifting shades of deep nights and sunny seas, much like the fluffy dress she wears.

For there is no one more caring and kind and sweet and bright as Poppy King. Doused in glitter from head to toe, bright pink hair, boisterous laughter, freckles across the bridge of her nose are only a few trademarks to give her. She doesn’t have the exact softness that his dream had, her edges rough and bold, yet her smile does, the way she never forgets him, the way—

(She hands him an invitation a thousand times and he declines a thousand times but treasures them anyway. A memory that’s a motion, one known by the muscles in his frame, because if he were to say “yes” one day—if he were to say “yes” one day…would that...would that be okay?)  

Okay. Wow. He’s done. This train of thought is completely disgusting and over. Just. No. Nope. That dream was not about Poppy, he tells himself. Not one bit.

Won’t.

Letting out a frustrated sigh, he chalks up his _unusual_ feelings to the dream bubble. Because there is no way in hell he’s going to publically moon over Poppy King. Nope. No way.

(That’s what poetry’s for.)

Branch is about to ignore the world, fall wayside to daydreams when he hears her gasp. His eyes snap open and there is Poppy grinning madly, in total joy at her premonition. She obviously wants to shout, but bites her lip to keep herself quiet, flailing her hands wildly as she attempts to contain herself in her seat. The bells at her wrists, her ankles, and ears still ring with her every movement.

Most of their other peers are still trapped in their bubbles when Poppy makes eye contact with him, her bright pink eyes sparkling with magic as she shifts in her chair, her glossy lips curving in the most radiant grin.

“That was amazing!” she mouths and Branch is able to hear it perfectly. The pitch of her voice, the squeal, the cadence as she explodes with emotion that punches every damn syllable.

He raises a brow and shrugs, his hand waving in a so-so motion.

And waits.

She takes a deep breath, stunned then Poppy’s eyes become huge, red flushing her cheeks, completely outraged. She silently squawks in her seat, scolding him across the way about how he’s completely wrong. Hands this way, hands that way, a terrible attempt at a menacing looking directly face on.  Branch does everything in his power to remain neutral, though a part of him at least wants to smile at her antics. It’s part of the game they play. Don’t give in or death.

Okay. Not death per say, but the one time he lost, she wouldn’t shut up about it for weeks afterward.

He puts a finger to his lips and quietly shushes her. Counting one, two, three and—

She practically vibrates in her seat, with either fury or excitement, or both. Branch feels like it’s both. Both explains Poppy pretty well.

She looks at him like he’s crazy, like how could this not be the most exciting thing to ever happen to them. And well, granted... This is most likely the most exciting thing to happen to her _today_ , but Branch doesn’t know how he feels about the whole dream bubble pink extravaganza that transpired minutes ago.

It’s a bit...out of his norm. Not bunker material. Nowhere was there enforced doors and copious amounts of supplies in case of famine or zombies. Always gotta be prepared for zombies after all. Can’t throw a necromancer far, you know.

The undead aside, he _felt_ safe and that’s the problem. His safety had nothing to do with his well-thought plans labeled A through Z, numbered one through infinity. He was safe because—dare he say it?—he felt _loved_.

A glimpse of pink catches his attention, making his heart race as his mind muddles up dreams and reality. He then realizes that he’s metaphorically burned a hole in the desk with his intent staring. Looking up, Poppy has been trying to make him pay attention by the way she smiles even broader than possible. She waves enthusiastically, enchanting her hair to do the same, the ringing of her bells finally noticeable.  

He scowls. It's simply a knee-jerk reaction to her unmitigated cheer.

She opens her mouth as if she’s going to whisper something, but one by one, dream bubbles pop and people gasp, excitement and wonder etched in their voices as they gain the ability to speak again.

It’s a symphony to her as she lets out the most relieved and ever appropriate. “That was so awesome! Eeee!”

Glitter shoots from her fingertips, her glee as always manifesting itself one way or another, usually in a way that’s flashy. It’s contagious, her magic and emotions. Her happiness permeates the room, amping up everyone else as Branch tries to ignore it.

It’s a Poppy side effect.

When she’s happy, you’re happy. It’s hard to be other with her sweet siren charm that oozes with her magic. Not that it’s malicious. She hopes—wants everyone to be happy.

Unfortunately.

There’s complete pandemonium raging, chaos ensuing with glitter sprinkling their peers—somewhat respectable young adults. Where is the dream proctor in this mess? Though, not that he expects any organization from Harper. She’d most likely join in on the mess, paint bombs and all.

Bright yellow comes into view, making his way towards Poppy with lackadaisical flip flops and an open shirt despite the fact that they are currently taking a preliminary examination. Or, as the Registrar likes to say, a “fun” training day.

Fun being loosely defined as something along the lines that Branch doesn’t like. Like bonding activities when he could back home away from the hustle and bustle of superficial witch and wizard and mystical networking. Because apparently forming strong bonds helps create a better tomorrow. Something along those lines. It’s on a pamphlet he’s pretty sure.

Creek crouches by Poppy’s desk, saying something most likely plagiarized from a wellness magazine. Something about auras and good dreams and the forces of the universe’s state, blah blah blah. She giggles loudly and he taps her nose, doing his ever famous “boop”.

Branch grimaces, more than disgusted at the display in front of him. He’s. Yeah. He’s done. Time to go home. Tapping his foot, he wonders for the umpteenth time, where is the dream proctor? He’s not a praying man, but for the love of all that is good and sane, someone please send help.

Eyes cast to the heavens, he gives it a shot anyway. What’s the worse that could happen?

“Branch! Branch, are you okay? You look like you want to die more than usual!”

Wrong help.

Rolling his eyes, a smartass remark about to roll off his tongue, Branch startles when he realizes that Poppy is now right in front of his desk crouching, her face nestled neatly in the crook of her arms as she leans on the table. The desk shakes for a moment, but she’s unfazed by the jerking motion. She blinks and gives him a happy smile, their previous disagreement forgotten.

His heart speeds up again, fright clutching hold as he tries to soothe the erratic beating in his chest.

“Jesus Christ, Poppy,” he breaths. “Can you not?”

She scrunches her nose, looking completely pleased. “I cannot not.”

Creek saunters over and places his hands on Poppy’s shoulders. “Poppy, love. Leave the poor bloke alone.”

She tips her head back and shakes her head playfully. “Can’t. I gotta bother him. I gotta. I love him, you know.”

And he’s dead. Goodbye. His life was alright, but please let it be known that Poppy King murdered him where he sits because she throws declarations of love so casually. And the worse part is that she means it. She loves him. He can feel it. Her emotions tasting like warm cookies his grandma used to bake for him.

Why does she have to be so nice all the time?

Creek pats her head, giving a tight wide smile, obviously being as blasted by her mood as he is. “Now, Poppy—I know you mean well, but Branch is well...branch-like. Like one with thorns. He's evolved to need to be alone.”

Seriously? This guy. Can he. Not? Like yes, he’s not wrong. Branch is pretty prickly, but how can he— If Poppy wasn’t perched on his desk, Branch knows for a fact that he would be table flipping. Instead, he tries a more diplomatic and less violent approach.

Branch stiffly says, “Thanks, man. Either way, stop treating her like a little kid.”

Voicing his “unique perspectives” have always been his strong suit anyway. He has to have one.

Creek’s smile falls immediately, his hands smoothing over Poppy’s shoulders as if to remain grounded. “I never—”

Branch cuts him off, crossing his arms over his chest and shooting him a glare. “Yeah, well, your posture says otherwise. Either way,” he says, jabbing a finger in Creek’s direction, “you can get lost. Poppy can stay if she wants.”

Poppy purses her lips together. “Branch.”

Ugh, does she have to say it so...sternly? Where in the world is this dream proctor? He wants to go home.

It’s—well, it’s an understatement that he dislikes Creek. That much is true. If he had Poppy powers, Branch knows for a fact that the air would reek and taste of shit anytime he saw the yoga loving would-be wizard. There’s...something about him that’s not right.

He doesn’t back down though. “What? It’s true. If you don’t like it, you can leave too.”

He looks the other way as Poppy stands and puts her hands on her hips.

In most normal situations, he’s usually able to retreat and let her stew on his words. It’s ...how he is. He’s pretty abrasive and harsh. So he can’t right now. He's trapped in a room with a good amount of people and there's no way out until he's given the signal to go. Rules and regulations and all that.

Not when he’s waiting for the next step of the prelims so that he can finally go up a rank and finally start selling spell patents. That’s all he wants. To sell safety spell patents. He wants to go up a rank too. There’s more freedom there.The higher the rank, the less he has to come into town and report to the Registrar. Is that so wrong? Come on. He’s suffering with all these people.

Creek tugs on Poppy’s arm, fed up with Branch’s attitude, trying to steer her back to her seat. A part of Branch wants to reach out and snatch her hand, hold her close with him instead of letting her go and letting Creek win. Which, of course, is the exact opposite of what he said before but—

(All scent of childhood gone, Poppy suppressing her powers. She always does when she feels something less than one thousand percent positive.)

Poppy is her own person. She can do whatever she likes with whomever she likes. That’s more than true enough.

Freedom comes when the dream proctor returns. A young woman with paint smudges all over her face, her hands, her body. Helps her better predict fortunes she says. Branch isn’t sure if that’s true, but he’s not one to argue with Harper. She’s the latest oracle in a long lineage of powerful women.

“Ah, sorry about that guys,” she laughs. “Had to talk to some of the higher ups about some assignment management. Can everyone get back to their seats and I’ll give you the rundown about your placements?

Poppy gives him a hard look before returning to her seat, Creek at her side as Harper begins, sending him a secretive satisfied sneer out of Poppy’s view.

“I know today has been pretty informal because of the whole dream bubble thing. Going up rank isn’t always a big deal. Sometimes all it takes are simple steps, you know. But I have to be honest— those weren’t true premonitions but _projections_.”

The room murmurs, questions running rampant as someone in the back asks, “What do you mean?”

Harper smiles and hops to sit on her desk. “Well, in reality, your dream bubbles helped us see exactly what you want in your heart of hearts. Things you’d be completely unaware of, you know. So. They’re like premonitions of your desires and not the real future, but that doesn’t mean they can’t be true one day! Which—” she beams, “is perfect for this next step! It’s rather new, but—you’ll find out tonight your next task! So be on the lookout for something magical in your future.”

Branch wants to slam his head on his desk for many reasons. One: really? Why the secrets? Is that really needed? Who runs this place. Actually, nevermind. That’s a stupid question. It’s a socks with no shoes wearing cloud. And two: he does not want to dwell on what his dream bubble meant because—because—oh god, she’s sitting right across from him and he’s not crazy prepared to accept that yet this time.

Heart of hearts, right? Yeah. In his heart of hearts, he doesn’t actually want to sell stupid safety patents.

“And—” Harper continues. “Next time I see you all, it’ll be for your actual exam and that’s when you should all worry. I might be easy going, but don’t worry kiddos, when the exam comes, you know what’s up. See you in a few months!”

She disappears in a cloud of colorful smoke with the snap of her fingers.

It’s...completely anti-climatic. The entire day wasted. From the dream bubble _projections_ to the deja vu of school to the moment, everyone starts to shuffle out of their seats. Like. He’s 24. Can’t this whole process be more? Formalized?

Poppy and Creek whisper to each other, things somewhat not going either of their ways. Doesn’t know what it’s about, but Branch knows for a fact that there is no one more stubborn or determined than Poppy.

Maybe save him. He’s kinda gotten the whole dig your heels into the ground thing down to an artform.

But he doesn’t care. Pulling out his phone, he’s been here for about two hours and he’s tapped out. No more people time today.

Grabbing his bag, he checks that he has everything on his person before heading over to the Corridor of Doors. A ridiculous name for their instant transportation, but hey. The door network works. Strange, different, but it works.

He refuses to look over his shoulder, digs his keys out of his pocket, and heads home.

* * *

“Poppy, I don’t know why you like him,” Creek says. “He’s toxic. Negative vibes in every direction.”

She rolls her eyes. While she adores Creek, haven’t they been over this enough? Everyone in the Snack Pack asks the same thing and can’t they see that Branch is more than doom, gloom, and apocalypses?

“Everyone deserves to be happy, Creek. Even grumps like Branch.”

Creek gives her a hard stare, looking completely unimpressed with her reasoning. In the past, he’s been quick to defend Branch in front of everyone else, but getting some attitude from said grump placed Creek in a sour mood. Of all days, couldn’t she have understanding Creek in lieu of namaste-and-fight-me-in-the-pit Creek?

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Branch makes his way to the Corridor and she now knows there’s a time limit ticking. She flashes Creek an apologetic smile and he sighs with exasperation before returning one of his one.

He taps her on the nose again and leans forward, leaving a quick peck on her cheek. “Off with you.”

Laughter bubbles within her, feeling content as she grabs her things. Things are—well, they are interesting to say with Creek. Pretty not serious, but interesting. Who knows?

She does like flirting with him if anything. She’s still unsure if she wants to upset the dynamic of the Snack Pack. The harmony of everyone right now is perfect. A good balance of play and fun with lots of flirting between all them here and there. No strings attached in a romantic sense, but a sturdy group built on foundations of love.

A part of her doesn’t know why either, but she always ends up trailing after Branch. That’s part of the problem too. She can’t help herself. He’s. Branch. And she’s Poppy. She has to go to him or the world would end. At least in one universe. There’s how many again? Uncountable, infinite?

She spots his deep rich blue backpack not too far ahead. A few paces away as he gets caught at a corner trying to get to the Corridor. The color resonates with her, her heartbeat quickening. She’s reminded of her dream bubble, the memory of it replaying instantly as she trudges forward.

She’s warm, in the sea. Caught in the currents of life’s vitality. Deep blue and rich teal fill her vision as she swims towards the surface, towards the golden sun of newness. She’s searching, longing for something, for _someone_ , praying that she can find them.

Who, she doesn’t know, but she has to find them. Has to protect them. Has to love them.

Wings sprout from her back as she breaks free from the water and the sky filled with pink clouds and rosy sunrise. Happiness propels her upwards and laughter tears from her soul.

Whoever she’s looking for, she’s going to find them, she knows it. She flies into the clouds and finds an outline of the someone she’s been hoping to see. She races forward, her wings speeding her along and heart never more full, never wanting anything else all along.

The longing she felt remained after she woke up, her dream bubble popping. If her mind when straight to Creek, that would have been easy. Sometimes—a part of her likes easy. Creek is simple, straightforward in his care and his attitude with others. Mysterious, yes, but understandable.

Like the wind blowing on sunny days. You don’t know where it comes from as it circles around you, but it ruffles your hair and caresses your skin with affection. Poppy doesn’t need to know why a summer breeze does what it does, but she’s thankful that she can experience it all the same.

Sometimes—things are less than easy and more on the complicated side. A complexity she doesn’t like to follow per say. But it’s hard when the epitome of her opposite challenges her every step of the way. There’s an allure in what she doesn’t know, in what she doesn’t understand, in the murkiness of Branch.

He’s irritating and infuriating and—unpredictable if given the chance. The one that goes against the grain, the one who proves her wrong, the one who she can’t pin down. Elusive water that slips between her fingertips. Kind. And thoughtful. When she least expects it.

(She forgot to breathe a second when her bubble popped, her eyes landing on Branch. The silhouette of her dream echoing in real life.)

The crowd before him starts to disperse, time kicking forward again as she leaps forward, not wanting to miss her chance. She pounces on him from behind, his backpack cutting into her gut. He staggers forward them, her arms circling around his neck to hold him in place.

“Hug time!” she sings, feeling proud that he caught him unaware for once. Which is hard to do because she’s eye catching and ear catching. With bright clothes and brighter hair and jingle-jangling bells. 

Branch freezes, making a choking sound. She takes mercy on him and lets him go, taking one large step forward to stand beside him. Which is nicer than she usually is. He smells like soap rather than dirt. She’s greeted by a glare automatically.

His fingers rub this throat, adjusting the collar of his gray shirt. “How many times—” he starts to scold.

Poppy clicks her tongue and places her hands behind her back. “Yeah, yeah. You say you don’t like hugs, but I know you do. Deep down. Sometimes.”

He grunts. “Yeah, well not today.”

“So other days, then?”

He pauses and raises a brow. “Don’t push your luck.”

She beams up at him, inching closer. Branch coughs and rubs the back of his neck, looking elsewhere that isn’t her. Poppy giggles and lets the moment stretch.

His lips press together, disgruntled and he fixes the shoulder strap of his bag. With a sigh, he looks away, wondering. “What do you want?”

She fights off smiling more. They have an odd friendship, to say the least. She’s thankful for it though. He’s a good guy. He humors her at least which is always better than completely ignoring her. Not that he ignores her, she notes. He complains loudly the entire time, much to her amusement.

“I don’t know,” she shrugs, matching his stride as he makes his ways to the doors. “To chat. We didn’t get to earlier,” she says simply. She leaves out the part that she hasn’t seen him in a while and kinda missed him. That would be too direct. But then realization strikes. “Oh, oh! What was your dream bubble projection premonition thing about? I didn’t get to see the color of it!”

He seems stunned at her question, his mouth opening and closing as he tries to decide what to say. She wonders what it could be then, something that makes him clam up like this. Is it something unexpected? Something different?

Branch swivels his head, looking straight ahead, his knuckles white as he grasps the strap of his bag. “Black. And how I’m happy alone.”

Poppy squints at him, tugging on his sleeve, making him turn around. “And that’s what’s in your heart of hearts? Being alone forever?”

He tears out of her hold. “Yep. Alone. Forever. Just the way I want to be. Why does that surprise you?”

She groans. “Branch, my man. C’mon. That’s so...lame.”

And a lie. A complete lie. If that was the case, he wouldn’t have hesitated. Whatever it is, it’s something he plans on keeping guarded to himself. She wants to tear out her hair. Anytime she feels like she makes progress with him, he sets them two steps back. Like if she gets too close, he’ll break.

“Well, Poppy,” he stresses. “The world isn’t all cupcakes and rainbows. I like my world. It’s mine. And if you don’t mind, I want to go home now.”

He moves to the doors again and she snags his jacket once more.

“Wait, wait, wait! You didn’t ask what mine was about, Branch!”

He turns back around and leans against the nearby wall, slightly exasperated, but smirking. “Ah, forgive my manners, Princess. What was _your_ dream bubble about?”

She pats him playfully on the arm. “See, was that so hard? And look! We’re chatting now!”

“Uh-huh, c’mon. Get on with it. Grace me with your heart’s desires.”

These are also moments that Poppy can’t figure Branch out either. For one, he’s looking rather cool propped up against the wall in that lazy sort of way. Maybe it’s the jeans, they look nice today—not being caked in mud or having holes at the knees. He’s effortless and understated, people have to want to notice him when he’s there, but she can’t help but always stare at him. He’s captivating. In that way, he doesn’t even realize that he is nice to look at. Despite his odd cockiness, it never has to do with his looks. Which is good, she thinks.

(Because, well, what would happen if he knew that she thought that he’s attractive in a way she can’t explain. Not like model attractive, but—handsome all the same.)  

And two, does he not realize that a man just can’t ask a woman about her heart’s desire so easily? Like he says it nonchalantly and—

—yeah, Branch. This guy. He’s a hard read.

And wow. Okay. Um.

She swallows, her sight glued to the floor, her heart racing a little faster than anticipated and fiddles with the hem of his shirt. It hits her then that her dream was a bit on the romantic side, if she thinks about it. It made her feel breathless before, but now, when her mind is all muddled with oceans and longing and Branch’s eyes are eerily like the sky she saw in it.

“Poppy? You okay?” he asks, concern in his voice rather than annoyance. “You look flushed.”

She’s still looking downward when feels the back of his hand to her forehead and she forgets to breathe. Again.

This is maddening.

“Hmm. Well, no fever,” he mummers. Removing his hand, he sticks it in his pocket. “Everything okay?”

She finally steels herself to look up and his face is open, a rare moment where he’s not hiding all his emotions. She nods and laughs a bit on the louder side than intended.

“Oh me? Ha—yeah. Um. I guess I, uh, realized how silly my dream thing was…” she trails.

Branch hums, quirking his head to the side. “Well, if you don’t want to talk about it, you don’t have to. You’re the one who wanted me to ask you.”

Awkward silence creeps between them. He jingles his keys from his pocket and Poppy rushes to fill the quiet that’s taken residence in their conversation.

“I was looking for someone!” she blurts. “Like, like—when my mom was my age, she had dreams where she was looking for someone and then she found my dad so..I think…I think I’m starting to get those dreams too…”

Oh god. Here she goes.

“Ah? Is that, um, normal? For witches?” he asks, similar to when a boy learns about a girl’s period for the first time.

“Uh. Kinda? It’s complicated. But yeah. It’s normal for siren class witches and we—yeah, they’re our familiar. Kinda. The person we dream of. It’s a two-way street. We give them an extra boost and then they help us channel our magic so we don’t have to, you know,” she shows off her earrings. She doesn’t tell him about the invisible seals on her throat. “Wear so much protective jewelry. For other people’s sakes. And stuff.”

A part of her wants to knock her head into a hard surface and claim insanity because she has never described the whole dream familiar thing so poorly. It’s simple in reality. She only needs someone to help her channel her magic because she has too much. That’s all. It’s easier to share it with another person than keep it all in her body.

But she couldn't say that, could she? No. She’s currently a Poppy imposter trying to be Poppy and failing.

“Huh,” Branch says after a thoughtful minute. “I didn’t realize—well, I knew you were powerful. Always thought it was because of your dad. Since he’s like one of the well-known wizards ever and all.” Clearing his throat, he continues. “You’re able to affect people’s emotions easily, but didn’t know it’s so, uh, regulated or because of your mom. That’s—wow, Poppy, gotta say that’s pretty neat. And terrifying.”

He says the last part with a sharp smile, like terrifying is more interesting, more unexpected and Poppy tries not to preen under the unusual praise, a blush coloring her cheeks.

“Yep!” she says, tucking loose strands of hair behind her ear. “And—I guess, I’ve been thinking a lot about that person! What they’d be like and I was dreaming of him. I think it’s him…I…want to meet them and maybe fall in love with them one day. Like how my mom and dad did. That would be—nice!” she babbles.

Branch’s eyes widen a fraction and he does that little “mmhmm” people do when they encounter something extremely strange but are too polite to actually say anything about it.

Where is normal firecracker crazy Poppy, she wonders. She likes that version of herself. Not this one, stuttering and red-faced. Not as explosive as she usually is. Well, a different kind of erupting emotions: the embarrassing kind.

She’s careful to hide her emotions right now. Knowing that when she’s nervous the air smells of stale water. She likes it better when she’s happy, when the air has citrus notes. Suppress, suppress, suppress.

“Well, then,” Branch says after a moment. “That does sound nice, I guess. I don’t know why you were so embarrassed about it. Usually, you’re a hyperactive love-vomiting nut.”

She laughs, glad for a sense of normalcy.

“Well, it’s different when it’s about myself than about other people. It’s easy to love other people, I’m born to do that. I want everyone happy.”

“You make everyone happy, Poppy. Don’t worry about that,” he says without missing a beat.

It makes her heart feel warm and that maybe this whole tangent of conversation wasn’t completely stupid.

She gladly takes the shift in subject change too. “Oh, even you, Branch?”

He huffs and takes a step back. Is that a bit of a blush she sees?

“No comment.”

Feeling better, Poppy slaps her hands to her face much, pumped up and letting the anyone in her vicinity smell oranges. No time to feel sad or weird. Today’s a happy day.

Branch coughs and laughs. “Holy shit, Poppy. You gotta warn a guy before you decide to give everyone a vitamin C boost.” He tries to scowl, but it fails courtesy of good vibes.

Firecracker Poppy is back and dons her best smile. “No way! Where’s the fun in that! Oh, oh! One more thing before you go home,” she says as she starts to dig through her purse.

Branch blinks and shakes his head. “Whatever it is, it’s no. Branch's tapped out for today.”

She pouts. “But it’s an invite for a kickback.”

Branch sighs and rakes a hand through his hair. “Look, I’m gonna go easy on you. You gave me a decent dose of cheer and you’re having an off day, but no thanks. I want to go home. I’m tired. We’re getting our next assignments tonight and I want to focus on that instead. So, please,” he emphasizes. “I don’t want to argue with you today.”

Branch gives her a strained smile and—he’s right. He's tired. She usually tries not to her powers around Branch because he’s more sensitive than others. And she knows he doesn’t like his feelings being so influenced by hers. She. She gets that.

“Fine. This one time I’ll let you off the hook,” she agrees. “But next time! Next time for sure you’re coming.”

He looks relaxed, small smile and all. “Fat chance.”

With that, he walks over to a free door on the other side of the room and sticks his key into the lock. Saying a spell to himself,  he opens it to reveal his darkened living room. He gives her one more curt wave before heading inside, the spell over once the door shuts behind him.

Poppy grabs the end of her ponytail and sighs, feeling emotionally exhausted and slouches against the wall. She wishes she could hide in her hair and blend into the wall. Maybe she got too excited earlier. She wants to rub her eyes, but she’s wearing mascara. Reluctantly, she puts her hands on the small of her back, arching herself, letting her bones crack.

“Told you that you should’ve come to yoga this morning.”

She huffs and reaches a hand out for Creek to grab. He tangles his fingers with hers immediately. It’s comforting. Knowing what to expect from him. Static, but comforting.

“Yeah, yeah. Next time?”

He kisses the back of her hand. “Did your chat go well? Feel better?”

She nods. “We didn’t yell at each other today. So yeah. That’s a plus.”

Creek laughs. “Whatever you say, love. He’s just so,” he shrugs, frowning. “Meh.”

“He is not!” She scolds and bumps shoulders with him. Grabbing her key and sticking it into one of the doors. “You know what’s not so meh?”

“What?”

“A case of cider and some good ol’ awful B movies.”

With their clasped hands, Creek points them forward. “Lead the way, my lady.”

* * *

Branch stretches his arms high over his head, aching muscles signifying pride as he finishes drafting a new spell. He lost most of his morning, but made up with the extra gardening he did in the afternoon. The quietness of his bunker fills him with peace, the silence soothing to his ears. No one to get too close, no one to dodge, no one to bother him. It’s perfect.

His mind wanders back to the Corridor of Doors when Poppy hugged him, back to the way she said she loves him, back to the dream bubble that made him feel safe. Back to his heart’s desires almost becoming real, but not.

They didn’t fight today, which was nice. Not that they always fight, but they left on a good note which is on the rarer side. Though he would never admit it, he does appreciate the way she can force him to relax. He’s been rather mushy and sentimental since he’s been home. He just—doesn’t want to abuse it. He knows he’s fucked up and using her powers to fix his problems doesn’t seem like a good idea.

Tempting, but definitely not a good idea.

He lets out a breath, his mind feeling clearer than this morning too. The dream bubbles put everyone on edge, subconscious desires surfacing when they shouldn’t have. Branch isn’t sure how the Registrar will be able to interpret them into something useful, but whatever.

Getting up from his desk, he gets for bed. Comfy and tattered sweatpants it is. Glancing at his clock as he sits on his mattress, it’s not too late, only a little after midnight. He’s sure that Poppy’s kickback is still happening. He doesn’t mind kickbacks as much. Those are fine.

(What if…what if he just showed up last minute and surprised her? Would that be—would that make her smile?

Nah.)  

No big and crazy loud parties. Those he can do without.

He wishes he took her invitation. Too late now though. He can’t go up and ask her for it despite that they—mean a lot to him. If he wasn’t so tired, he would go through them and read them all again, but decides not to.

His mind drifts to Creek. Creek and Poppy to be more precise. There’s something going on there and he isn’t stupid. There’s something brewing between them. If he wasn’t such a coward, maybe things would be different.

But that means being less of a coward. Not that it—would work out though. Poppy and he are too different. From different worlds entirely and she deserves better than him. Deserves better than Creek too, but that’s her choice. Whatever makes her happy.

_I …want to meet them and maybe fall in love with them one day. Like how my mom and dad did. That would be—nice!_

Turning off the light, he laughs to himself while getting under his covers. Freaking Poppy. Who knew she could get so flustered over a boy she never met? It was adorable. Rosy cheeks, nervous fidgeting. Miles away from the normal, confident girl that stole everyone’s attention.

Branch falls asleep thinking of Poppy’s laughter, of her smile, of her touch. Of the way she makes the world smell like cookies when she loves someone or citrus when she’s joyful. He lets her zeal lull him to sleep, her tenacity to never be less than surprising. Thankful that there are days when he doesn’t feel awful because of her.

He doesn’t name what he feels, but he whispers her name before dreams take him.

“Goodnight, Poppy.”

* * *

 

He stands in a warm ocean, rich blue shifting teal green. The sky's sunrise, sunset, twilight all in one moment. Pink fading into orange slipping into violet. Moon and sun suspended both in East and West—a polarizing image.  

Soft pink petals rain down and he looks up, ceasing to breathe as he recognizes _her_. It was only a hazy outline before, but now Poppy smiles down at him, wings at her back deteriorating as she descends. His heart fills to the brim with happiness—overflowing his veins, saturating his soul.  She’s never been more gorgeous, her hair loose and a flower crown woven into her pink hair, a rose-colored gown complementing tanned calves.

 _This_ ... _this is what love is_ , he thinks.

Branch reaches for her, pulling her close into his orbit, the sun outlining her form in a halo and the world has never been more wonderful. Her fingers graze his palm before lacing with his, his other hand holding her at the waist. It’s a perfect fit.

Her arms circle around his shoulders, burying her face in the crook of his neck. “I found you,” she whispers, her lips ghosting his skin. Her hair smells of strawberries and sugar.

He holds her close, afraid that if he lets go that she might vanish. “You found me.”

He—he doesn’t know what else to say, doesn’t know how to articulate that he’s never wanted anything more than this, doesn’t know how to express that this—this is his heart’s desire. There is no darkness that lurks, no painful past, just now—just Poppy lighting his world.    

She pulls back, pink eyes clear, specks of gold around her pupils. She carefully takes his face in her hands, her touch ever gentle as she leans in close. Her thumbs stroke the apples of his cheeks. Her smile radiates jubilance.

“Mine,” she breathes against his lips. “You’re mine.”

Branch nods. “Yours. I’m yours,” he says.

He feels her smile against his mouth before she presses her lips against his. A gentle and nervous kiss, one that promises tomorrows and tomorrows after tomorrows if he’d have them.

He hugs her closer, smiling through her kisses as if that is even a question.

(He’d have as many tomorrows as she’s willing to give.)

And he’s never had a more happy dream and kisses her again.

* * *

 Dappled sunlight streams through her curtains, speckling her face with golden rays. Poppy enjoys the extreme warmth, comfortable from a good night’s sleep. Blinking herself steadily awake, she smiles at the blue flowers she picked yesterday and placed in the vase on her nightstand. She buries herself back into her pillow, waiting for her alarm to go off any minute, relishing that her blanket feels extra heavy today.

It makes her want to go back to sleep in instant. She can stay here forever, cocooned in bliss.

Her phone chimes a pop song at 6:05 on the dot, smooth singing delighting the air.

She’s about to reach over and turn it off when her blanket moves and pats the bed, muttering expletives as it looks for her cell phone. Poppy doesn’t mind for a moment, because hey, if her blanket wants to be helpful—  

—wait.

She doesn’t have an enchanted blanket nor does her blanket have a brown arm. It has no arms to speak of.

And in hindsight, she should have seen this coming, she did have a rather good dream about meeting her would-be familiar.

But hindsight is late in coming, and that does not stop her from screaming at the top of her lungs and shoving said also screaming person out of her bed

There’s a large thud on the ground and more swearing when Poppy snatches her wand and peers over the side of her, ready to blast this fucker into next Tuesday if she has to.

But, she can’t, not when—not when—there he sits on the floor of her room, with ratty pajamas and messy black hair, blue eyes blinking up at her with jaw gaping.

Poppy usually knows what to say. In this case, she can barely eke out one syllable beyond the knot in her throat. Can barely make the air come rushing up to say his name.

“Branch?”


	2. love is an open door

Branch blinks at her, much like an owl. His brows almost into his hairline, confusion etched across every corner of his face. His blue eyes then wander around her bedroom, over the pink and bright decor. His presence completely out of place on her floor, the only dark spot in all her brightness. He blinks and turns his attention back to her, having the same capability of speech as she had moments ago.

“...Poppy?”

A second stretches miles long between them, both still as the universe continues to flow. In the quiet, the dream hits her full force, flooding her mind  Poppy’s world tilts as she remembers the warm ocean at her feet, the sun and the moon, flowers in her hair, petals showering her familiar—kissing him, so happy, claiming him as hers—

Claiming. Him. As. Hers.

(She kissed him as if he were air, relished in his touch, wanted nothing else than to be close to him.

She felt as if in that moment, her heart had opened wide, welcoming him, loving him instantly, readily, hungirly—)

Oh god.

Horror paints her face as she glances down at Branch’s bare chest. A blooming pink sun glows over his heart. Her symbol, her magical signature branded on his skin for the world to see, a slight hum in her chest if she pays attention.

She flings herself backward on her bed, snatching a pillow, covering her face with it, and screams. There is no other course of action she can take. What in the honest fuck? Just. Yeah, screaming. Screaming is all she can do because—because—

She claimed Branch, her begrudging childhood friend, as her familiar.

( _Mine_ , she said. She claimed him. _Yours_ , he said and he accepted.)

Mr. “I don’t like hugs, singing, or dancing” Branch. “I hate parties” Branch. “I’m your friend so you’ll talk to me less” Branch.

Is this divine punishment because she admitted for once in her life that she missed him? Heavens forbid she miss a friend she hadn’t seen in a long while because they happen to be a recluse that likes to live alone, underground, _in the woods_.

Like yes, she wanted to spend more time with him, but she didn’t mean like this! Not this whole, “Hey, you’re my familiar now” kind of way. More like, “Hey, let’s go see a movie together and maybe get coffee.” Friendly activities for people who are friends! Friends!

Poppy is torn between laughing and crying, she’s pretty sure that she can do both right now. The irony of everything—of her, of Branch, of freaking mentioning the whole familiar thing to him the day before as if it was a simple piece of conversation.

Now, look at what predicament she’s in.

A weight settles onto her bed, dipping the mattress. She sighs heavily into her pillow, noticing that it doesn’t smell the same as it did the night before, and removes it from her face. A most bewildered Branch greets her.

“Um,” he says, twisting his hands together. “Do you...” he pauses to lick his lips. “How did I get here?”

Here meaning her bedroom. In her bright pink world with hanging fairy lights and glistening glittery trinkets that float in the air. Here meaning in her bed, nestled close to her as they slept the night before, limbs tangled before daylight came and woke them. Here as in not in his safe haven, his bunker.

On another day, in another situation, Poppy knows she would have thought he looked adorable, questioning and confused by somehow ending up in a woman’s bed. Because it’s Branch. How in the world does Branch accidentally end up in a woman’s bed that he hasn’t mapped an escape route for?  But today’s not the day for her to be laughing. Not one bit as her eyes travel down to his chest and linger for a moment, a part of her feeling satisfied seeing her symbol on him.

And another part of her is horrified that’s she’s so satisfied.

Branch follows her line of sight and finally notices the pink glowing sun imprinted on his body. He yelps, jumping up and trying to wipe it away, but it refuses to budge.

Ah, now there’s a Branch she knows and can handle. A panicking Branch is a normal Branch.  

He points at his chest, points at her, points to himself again. “Why is your symbol on me?!” he shrieks, voice high pitch and in absolute stress.

Yeah, no matter how much a freaked out Branch is an odd comfort, no one ever gave her the talk on how to break it to a guy that he’s now her new familiar. Thanks, mom.

“Poppy! Answer me! What in the hell is going on?”

She sucks in a deep breath of air and groans. Propping herself on her elbows, she’s mildly aware that she’s in her underwear and a Justin Timberlake t-shirt. Pants? Should she put pants on? That would seem appropriate, right? Wearing pants is proper when telling someone they are now bounded to you in the ancient ways of old until otherwise noted?

Branch stops freaking out for a moment, gazing at her from head to toe until he too comprehends her pantless state. He blushes a deep red, from the tip of his ears to trailing down his neck, mumbling a fervent apology. He turns away then and wow—is it a familiar side effect or is Branch kinda? Hot?

Hello, broad shoulders and sculpted sun-drenched back. And triceps.

(He held her so effortlessly, keeping her in the air as if she weighed nothing. His wide palm felt firm at the small back.)

Okay, Poppy, no. You’re not like—actually attracted to Branch. You’re just in a mood because you had a good dream that’s now a freaking nightmare. Yeah. Totally normal. And it’s been awhile. Yep. Been a long, long while. Since. You know—

“I need pants,” she declares more to herself. “And…do you want? A shirt...or something?”

Branch doesn’t turn around, his back ramrod straight. “Please…” he chokes out.

Finding pants is easy, grabbing the used pair of sweats she keeps over her desk chair. A shirt for her new partner proves to be— completely another story. Examining his physique for purely scientific reasons, Poppy deducts that Branch is simply too broad to fit into even her largest of shirts. He might be on the shorter side, but he’s stocky.

The one brilliant idea she can muster involves going to the back of her closet where she keeps her more paramour like items. It is summer after all and hot. So. And textile magic has never been her strong suit when it comes to clothing items. Craft items, decorations? Sure, she’s a pro. Give her a dress or a shirt and she’s all thumbs.

In few steps, she crosses the space of her bedroom and drapes the silky material over his shoulders. “Here. Like, don’t freak out, but you’re super wide up top and—”

Branch shakes his head and slips into her pink and lace trimmed robe without a fight. “No, nope. This is fine. Just. Fine,” he says lightly, with maybe a tinge of hysteria. “Makes more sense than...like everything else…” He knots the tie around his stomach and turns around, raking a hand through his dark hair, musing it in every direction.

The air is tense between them, so Poppy blurts the first thing that comes to mind. Which usually is not a smart idea when she hasn’t even had a cup of coffee. “Wow, pink’s a good color on you! Really brings out the richness of your complexion!”

Branch stops combing his hair. “Ah?”

Poppy gulps, but she’s already started. Can’t stop now. She smiles a bit too brightly, even for herself, babbling as she goes along. “Yep! I usually only see you in like—dull colors, but here you are, in my pink lingerie robe! Lookin’ good, bud!”

“Poppy.”

“Really, never would have thought, but hey—here we are! You in my robe, me in not my robe, I mean, it’s like the one night stand no one ever asked for and—”

“Poppy, stop.”

“I should get my camera, we can have an impromptu photo shoot,” she says, slinging an arm around him, waving her other hand in the air as if there was something there. “Branch: Man of Mystery or Man of Femininity?”  

Branch whines at the back of his throat. “Poppy, I know you’re crazy, but you’re scaring me. I’m supposed to be the weird one.”

Poppy drops her arms and sighs, almost tempted to lay herself on the ground and curl into a ball. “I guess—we should, we should sit down....”

(She doesn’t know if she will ever get the image of Branch wearing her robe out of her mind. She wasn’t lying when she said he looked good. And that’s the problem.)

Wordlessly, she grabs Branch by the wrist and pulls him out of her bedroom into her living room. She settles him on her small neon green love seat as she climbs into an equally as obnoxious orange chair, adjusting her pillow in every which way to stall. He picks up on this instantly, his expression darkening the longer she takes. Thankfully, Branch doesn’t say anything.

Picking up a stuffed well-loved troll toy, Poppy gathers courage and sends Branch her weakest and most sheepish smile. This is worse than asking a guy what his name is after he wakes up in her bed because maybe—she was slightly too smashed to remember. Worse than trying to sneak away from a hookup's apartment in the wee hours in the morning. Worse than a lot of things.

So, she takes a deep breath and starts again in normal positive Poppy fashion. She shoots Branch another smile, the same Branch who is also wearing her pink and lace trimmed robe, where her symbol peaks out from the edge of his heart because it’s still not the perfect fit. The same Branch who is all about safety spells and precaution and control.

She swallows, her mouth cotton dry. She should have made a pot of tea or coffee. Or brought out the whiskey.

Note to self: next time somebody randomly becomes her familiar and they wake up in her bed, please have whiskey ready to go.

Branch bounces his knee, his knuckles turning white as he clenches them into fists on his lap.

She licks her lips, regretting not having anything to drink to stall longer. “So,” she starts. “You know, sometimes, I have, like, sex dreams about my friends, right? Well. Funny. Story.”

Branch blinks, his jaw hanging. “Your opening is about sex dreams? That’s what you’re going with!”

Poppy frowns, irritation bleeding through as she crosses her arms. “Hey, you think this is easy? Well, it’s not. A sex dream about one’s friend is completely normal!”

He throws in hands in the air. “You’re seriously going with this. This— _sex dreams_ ,” he hisses, “does not explain how I ended up in your damn bed with your mark seared into my skin, Poppy!”

“Well, it made sense last night to me!” she shouts. “It’s been a long time for me, Branch! You smelled nice. I have kinda low standards sometimes. Desperate times, okay, pal! Desperate. Times. It made perfect sense to me last night as to why you were in my stupid dream!”

His face pales. “You—know that I was—me? There?”

She nods once, uncrossing her arms arm to furiously gesture between them. “Yes! I remember the dream. Perfectly. I didn’t question it because I thought it was my dream.”

It’s almost comical how despite spending so much time in the sun, Branch becomes the same shade as her robe: bright pink.

He sticks his head between his knees. “Oh God. You know,” he whispers.

“Yeah, yeah. Would have been better if it was a Poppy sex dream, now, huh? Suck on them apples,” she says. With a small, dry chuckle. “Or my face. Take your pick.”

He snaps up, eyes narrowed with a mix of anger and embarrassment contorting his face. “It was a dream!”

“I know, Branch, I know!” Poppy says, exasperated. Taking a breath, she adds. “It was a dream. The dream part isn’t a big deal. Like all we did is kiss. Could have been way more explicit, let me tell you. Uh, anyway. It happens. Just—”

“What?” he croaks. “Just what?”

Poppy squirms in her seat and winces, looking away. “Do you remember how I said yesterday I’ve been kinda dreaming about my familiar…?”

“...no…”

She can only nod and hum “yes.”

Peeking an eye open, Branch is robotic. There is no expression on his face as the seconds tick. Tick, tick, tick, tick. Finally, his eye twitches and he stands up swiftly, hands in his hair again and starts to frantically pace in her living room.

“No, no, no, no, no.”

Poppy cringes and pulls herself up so she can make him sit down again. He walks in a small circle over her bright flowery throw rug, muttering how this can’t be real over and over again.

“Nope, not happening. I’m gonna—wow, this is a fucking nightmare.”

(She ignores the part of her that feels hurt at this reaction; it’s totally valid. Just because she had a childhood dream of falling in love with her familiar, doesn’t mean that it would have happened. And now coming face to face with her familiar and it being Branch. She is. Conflicted. Besides—she could—yeah. She’ll have to tell him that at least.)

She puts a hand on his elbow, “Branch. Come sit down. We’ll figure it out.”

He whirls on her, eyes wide. “I—why me—Poppy, fix this,” he pleads.

She tries to smile, really does, but she knows it’s not her best. “Look—I—” she fumbles. “Let’s sit down, okay? And I’ll try to answer your questions.”

He mutely nods and letting Poppy guide him to the couch again due to shock.

This time she sits with him, curled up on one side of the loveseat as she tucks him into the other. Feeling more composed than she first did this morning, she summons a glass of water with a snap of her fingers. Branch sees it and goes to do the same until Poppy throws herself over him, grabbing his hands.

“No!” she yells. “No magic yet for you! Let alone in my house!”

Shock somewhat wearing off, Branch becomes skeptical. “What? Why?”

She lets out a sigh of relief and hands him her glass and gets herself another one. Sitting back on her side of the loveseat, she tries to comb some knots out of her hair with her fingers as a distraction. “Branch, you’re my familiar now.”

He stiffens, brows furrowed. “So? Do I have to have your goddamn permission now to do magic?” he snaps.

Poppy bites the inside of her cheek, understanding that his reaction is warranted. “No,” she says evenly. “I’m a siren witch, Branch. I need a familiar to share my magic with. So basically, I’m a magical steroid,” she explains. “I’d rather not be indoors when we test out your skills and I know for a fact you don’t use your wand to cast magic. Do you even have a conductor? Because I don’t think you’re getting the fact that I literally have so much magic in my body that I will one day die if I don’t give it away to someone else. ”

He looks away, his face in a reluctant grimace. “Okay. Sorry.”

“It’s cool, I get it. You’re upset. I would be too.”  

He groans, throwing his head over the armrest. “I’m—a lot of things right now.” He scrubs at his face, sighing. “It’s way too early for this many emotions. And why in the world do you wake up at six am?”

Poppy relaxes for the first time all morning and stretches her legs, laying them over Branch’s own. “I exercise,  bruh. I have a lot of energy.”

There’s a ghost of a smile in his voice. “Do you even lift, bro?”

She grins. “Nah, I have to run a lot. A lot.”

“I don’t think you burn much energy though. You’re always so freaking hyperactive.”

“Endorphins, buddy. Lots of endorphins!”

“There’s a movie quote I can’t remember, but yeah.”

Poppy laughs and sinks into the couch, laying her hands on her stomach. She has a familiar. It’s weird. Not bad, but not good. Just weird.

“So,” Branch stars, breaking the silence. “Can I ask you something?”

Poppy closes her eyes and hums. “Yeah, shoot.”

He waits a moment and shifts, trying to bring his knees to his chest, but can’t.  Poppy opens her eyes and gazes at him from her spot on the loveseat, an apology on her lips as she starts to move her legs.

A hand tightens around her ankle and she shrieks, a tickle running up her bones, making her flail.

“It’s okay,” Branch whispers, keeping her in place. “The weight’s nice. I’m--fidgety.”

If Poppy was a little braver and if Branch was a different person, she would offer to sit in his lap. But they are neither. Instead, Branch absentmindedly strokes her shins, drawing little patterns that make her want to twitch away, but she won’t.

“What’s your question?”

From where she lies, he wears a brittle smile. “Why did you pick me?”

She bites her lips and sits up too, wishing that again that her mom would have told her what to do. Dad’s family were known to be familiars. It wasn’t too unusual for him to become one. But Branch. Branch is different. He’s very much alone and being a familiar is the opposite of being alone.

Poppy puffs out her cheeks, trying to explain the process, settling that honesty is the best.

“I—I didn’t actively pick you, Branch. It—happens.”

(Is it her or did he wilt a little?)

“What do you mean?”

She shrugs, more to herself, and sighs. “Fate decided. Or the universe. Magic. I don’t know, I wanted someone and I guess you got chosen. Usually, the other person is searching for someone else too, in a way,” she says. Tapping her fingers on her stomach, she adds. “I’m sorry. I know you’d rather be alone.”

( _Alone. Forever. Just the way I want to be. Why does that surprise you?_

It doesn’t...but maybe...he can be surprising again.)

Branch is oddly quiet, almost as if he’s stopped breathing. He exhales, his tension leaving his body. “Yeah, I like being alone. That’s right. Yep.”

Ah. No, he meant what he said. Fuck.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers again, feeling out of whack. God, it strikes her that she’s emotionally all over the place all morning. She hopes that Branch hasn’t minded her shift in moods—she blanked on concealing them. She’s just—

“I’m sorry. For everything.”  

Branch taps her with his foot and grumbles. “Don’t apologize, dummy. It’s not your fault.”

She wordlessly nods. Not knowing what to say. That’s rare for her. But what can she say?

“You know,” Branch says. “I don’t feel any different. If I hadn’t woken up in your bed to your delightful screams—thanks, by the way, I wouldn’t have known.”

She grins. “Well, you’d be happy to know that I was this close to blasting you into next week. I’m a tiger ready to rumble if need be.”

Branch stares at her a moment before shaking his head, his hair becoming wilder. “Poppy, the first part of safety is constant vigilance,” he starts to ramble.

It’s somewhat familiar—no pun intended—Branch rattling about different safety spells as she stews with her thoughts. She doesn’t feel any different either, truth be told. Well, emotionally and mentally, she’s a wreck, but magic wise? She seems—more balanced—like when she puts on her bells, but—

Her bells!

She vaults and scrambles over the back of the sofa, landing on the floor with a thud, Branch calling after her. Racing into her room, she finds her bells placed neatly on her dresser as she religiously does every night before she goes to sleep. She—usually she is wild when she doesn’t wear them, too much energy about to burst through early in the morning—like she’s going to explode if she doesn’t use magic right away.

Yet there is no intense extra energy sizzling under her skin, threatening to undo her seams, break free and tear her apart. No moment of chaos as everything swirls inside her mind, no songs of old trying to manifest into reality. No storming and raging sea threatening to destroy everything she loves.

Things are different now, she realizes. She can feel the layers of magic in the air, feel the thrum of the flow of the universe that surrounds them, and easily focus on the magic in her veins. She stares down at her hands in wonder, feeling like maybe—she could do a large spell without needing her wand as a conducting point.

She feels more in control, untouched like a water’s surface without ripples.

Bringing a hand to her throat, she can’t even feel the restriction of the seal that rests there. Almost as if it dissolved away in the shining sun. Almost if she were to sing, really sing, that she wouldn’t be consumed with the power that flows through her.  

Branch’s footsteps creak her floorboards as he leans against her doorframe. “Poppy?”

That slight hum is back, the one next to her heartbeat. She’s reminded of her mother and her father, seeing the marks on their chests and—

She pulls the collar of her shirt out and there rests Branch’s symbol. A crescent blue moon made full by a leaf filling the space between. A calmness rains down over her, the hum making sense, the need for not wearing bells making sense, her magic moving freely between the two of them instead of suppressed.

She’s.

Never felt so free.

She falls into a heap onto the floor, happiness bursting in her chest, holding a bell in her hand and laughing. It jingles as it always has, but it’s no longer her harness.

Branch takes a step forward and kneels beside her. “Poppy? You okay there?”

She smiles warmly at him and pulls down part of her shirt so that he can see his symbol. “Never better. I’m fantastic. Today’s gonna be a fantastic day.”

 _Freedom comes with a familiar, my love_ , her mother told her. _You’ll understand that this person will lead you to the edges of the universe._

“Is that? Is that my symbol?” he whispers.

(A sun and a moon, suspended in the air, forever equal as the sky is bathed both in sunrise and nightfall.)

“Mmhmm.”

“On you?”

“Yep.”

She grabs his hand and places it on her heart, his fingers ghosting her clavicle, the hum vibrating under his touch. She does the same, grazing her fingers across the skin that’s hidden under her robe. His heart is beating fast like hers, an extra sensation tingling where it lays. This is—this is what it means, she thinks, to find someone in this way.

“Holy shit.”

He lays down next to her and they stare at the stars and flowers painted on her ceiling in silence. It makes sense for her than to lace her fingers with his. Things are different now.

“This is real, isn’t it?”

She nods. “Yeah, my dude. For now, this is really happening to us.”

This is right, she thinks. This is...this is good.

Branch opens up his mouth to say something, but instead, his stomach growls.

Poppy stifles a giggle and picks herself up, stretching her arms and shoulders before putting her hands on her hips, a bounce back into her step.

“Let’s eat and talk, alright?” she says.

Sticking out her hand to help him to his feet, Branch nods and for a brief moment, Poppy prays like everything might be a little okay.

* * *

 Things are not okay.

Nothing about this morning has been okay. From the moment Branch went to sleep last night and dreamed that he kissed Poppy, to wake up to still think he was dreaming and spooning her, to actually waking up and finding her symbol on his chest, to realizing that all the kisses—and he does mean _all_ of them—were actually real kisses that Poppy remembers as well, to finding out that he’s her new familiar, to—   

Yeah. Nothing about this morning has been okay and everything is a total shit show.

But Poppy—is so happy at this moment as she bops around her kitchen making chocolate chip waffles. It’s adorable and his heart is going to pop out of his chest because her giddiness is contagious, her happiness in the very air he breathes and—  

— _he_ kinda made her this ecstatic.

She doesn’t have to wear her bells anymore, so much weight lifted off her shoulders that Branch swears he can almost see the outline of flower petal wings forming on her back. He’s always thought that Poppy has been a free spirit, but he knows better now. This is her being free, unbounded by protective jewelry and seals, no longer shackled by a fear that she’ll be uncontrollable.

She’s singing to some pop song, leaving Branch with his thoughts as he sits in her bright red retro kitchen. Her house is so expressive. From her 1960’s hippy bedroom to her 1970’s living room, to her 1950’s kitchen. Truly, Poppy cannot live in the present when it comes to decor, but it suits her. Her house reminds him of wild flowers growing in every direction, covering hilltops for miles. It fits her perfectly.

(He remembers the way she fit perfectly in his arms too. How right it felt. How he’s never going to have that happen again.

That it can’t happen again. Poppy didn’t realize...She didn’t…but that doesn’t mean he can’t keep that memory and hold it close to him in private.

_I…want to meet them and maybe fall in love with them one day._

God, it’s pathetic how much he already—)

“Branch?”

He blinks and everything comes into focus. Poppy hovers over him, a lock of her hair tickling his ear. He smells strawberries again, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. He forgets to breathe.

“P-Poppy, c'mon, back up a little,” he mumbles.

She giggles and affectionately fluffs his hair. “Okay, Mr. Grump, would you like more coffee?”

He grunts and motions towards his cup. Trying to wrap his whole mind around everything. If someone told him one day he would be sitting at his childhood friend’s kitchen table in her scandalous bathrobe, he would have laughed until he cried. But now...he would kindly thank them and wait for his day of reckoning. He rests his head on the table and tries to start again.

Fact: Poppy is happy that she has a familiar.

Fact: Branch is Poppy’s familiar.  

Fact: Poppy wants to fall in love with her familiar like her parents.

Conclusion: Poppy will fall in love with Branch.

False. Wrong. Error, error. The premise has failed. Not sound logic.

Therein lies the problem. As much as, through some twist of fate, he enjoys the _idea_ of being with Poppy always. Because. She wouldn’t be able to leave him, because you know, tied by some intense cosmic bond, and she’s the only person he cares about in his weird, roundabout way, but—

Poppy deserves more. Her symbol is literally a blooming sun, bright pink and beautiful. The world lays at her feet and she can do anything. She’s incredible. She’s—

—not bunker material.

She needs freedom, excitement, life happening around at all times. Branch is too quiet, too cautious, too secluded to be anything else. At the end of the day, they’re too different and while the idea sounds nice, it won’t happen. Can’t happen. There has to be a way to get rid of this bond.

Sitting up in the chair, Branch takes a second to save this memory. Poppy is cooking at the stove, flipping bacon and miraculously not burning anything or adding lots of sugar. Apparently, even she has the good sensibility not to be a total disaster in the kitchen. Her hair is messy, a bird’s nest and frizzy. She’s comfortable, soft around the edges in her baggy t-shirt and sweats.

He’s never seen her so mellow. If he blinks, she might disappear, be a figment of his imagination, this Poppy who is gentle. It’s endearing, the way his heart crawls up into his throat, making him pause because sometimes she makes him forget that the world is still turning.

She peeks over at her shoulder and smiles and moonlight is in her smile for once instead of sunshine and Branch—he can’t look away. Oh. God.

“Hey, do you want eggs too? I promise I can cook those okay.”

He shakes his head. “If you want them too. Want me to help?”

She smiles bigger, the corners of her eyes crinkling, and he’s noticing the faint smudges of mascara. “Sure! I’d like that.”

Branch opens the fridge and is...surprised at how normal….it looks. He assumed it would be stacked full of sugary treats, but it’s like anyone else’s fridge. Even has a thing of chicken defrosting for what he assumes will be tonight’s dinner.

He grabs both the eggs and milk and shuts the door with his hip, wondering if he should have asked Poppy for a mixing bowl and whisk first. Or at least, a fork. In reality, he’s only been to her new place a handful of times. For a couple of kick back she’s thrown and even her house warming party. The little cactus plant he bought her a year ago has grown a lot since then.

Poppy is leagues ahead of him though and has already set up a bowl and whisk for him on the counter. He gives her an appreciative smile and gets to work cracking some eggs.

“How many eggs for you?”

“Two, please. And you can have as many as you’d like.”

He laughs. “Oh good, because I normally have three or four.”

A comfortable silence blankets them as she transfers bacon onto a plate and starts to make waffles with the iron. It strikes him funny then that both they can use magic, but here they are, cooking by hand like how non-magic people do.

She bumps into him. “Why are you smirking?” she teasingly asks.

He shrugs. “Nothing. Just. I know we both know how to do simple cooking spells.”

Poppy chuckles and shakes her head. “Yeah, but you’re on a no magic ban for the time being until we can get outside. I was thinking we can head to your bunker after breakfast? You got a lot of land in your neck of the woods.”

“Yeah, sounds good. Doesn’t explain why we both are doing this by hand though.”

“Well,” she starts, fiddling with a fork. “It doesn’t taste the same, you know? My mom used to make everything by hand...so...reminds me of her.”

Branch pauses his whisking, thinking back when he was a child. There was always something cooking in the kitchen, but his grandma was the same way. By hand or it would never taste the same.

“No, I get you.”

There’s a lull in the conversation, words escaping him. Everything is fragile right now and Branch fears that if turns too quickly or takes an extra step, then everything will shatter beneath his feet.

He pours the eggs into the pan once it’s hot and starts to scramble them. Poppy sets the table, placing warming charms over the bacon and waffles. It’s...almost suffocating. The room now. The turn of conversation, the softness, the—

Branch usually likes silence, but he doesn’t know what to do when Poppy isn’t chattering away like she normally does. It’s a part of her character to be talkative and charismatic. She’s naturally charming and this quiet Poppy is new; too different; too much.

(It’s a side to her he’s never seen and it makes his heart twists in about twenty different directions because this moment is happening on borrowed time. He’s most likely never meant to see it in the first place.)

So, when in doubt, Branch does what Poppy would do: blurt something out.

“Uh, thanks for being my first kiss!”

A utensil clatters on the table. “Y-your first kiss?!”

Heat crawls up his nape, rounding over his ears. “Yep, my very first one. You know. In the dream thing. Because it was real and all.”

The eggs finish cooking and he turns off the burner, scraping the eggs onto a plate. It happens in a few seconds, but one moment he’s putting the pan in the sink and the next, he’s whirled around to see a very wide eye Poppy.

“What do you mean your first kiss? Like the dream aside, have you ever kissed anyone?”

“Uh, no?”

In retrospect, it makes sense that she’s so baffled. He’s wearing her robe that matches a set of bright pink lingerie. Like she doesn’t wear this to do housework or garden.

(Nope, do not think what Poppy does while wearing this. You’re going to regret that, Branch.

Whoops.)

She shakes her head, sympathy in her every movement. “No, Branch, my man. That’s so sad.”

Yep, definitely regretting all of this. Poppy is so—and yeah.

(Beautiful, he wants to say, she’s beautiful. And remarkable and alluring that it would make sense for her to express herself that way with someone. Poppy is all talk and most talking is rarely done with words.)

“Thanks?”

An idea sparks in her mind, her smile having a mischievous glint to it when she stands closer, almost as if she’s going to hug him, but won’t. “Hey, I thought of something,” she says, voice low.

Branch has always wondered how she got pink colored eyes. Were they from her mother? Did she use magic to change them?  Flecks of gold ring the pupil and he’s never seen anything more enchanting. Her softness, her gentleness, the way her body heat rolls off her in this moment.

His heart is an erratic tattoo in his chest, because—if she’s implying—oh god.

(He has to know.)  

He swallows, his voice husky. “Yeah?”

She takes his hands in hers and peers at him through her lashes. “How about I be your real first kiss?” she offers. “Least I can do. You know. For somehow getting you mixed up in being my familiar.”

Poppy’s hands are soft in his. He crafts hard spells with lots of layers and textured surface. Barriers and protective wards to keep things out. Spells for defense. Works with hard materials every day, but her hands are warm and kind. Branch knows he’s never held anything more valuable in his life.

Branch exhales a breath he didn’t know he was holding and meets her gaze, his face bright red. “Only if you want to.”

Poppy blinks, stunned for a moment, before wrinkling her nose in the most adorable a way. “Oh, wow. You’re sweet,” she chuckles. “Yes, I want to kiss you.”

He takes back what he said yesterday. Today is the day he dies by Poppy’s hand. She’s going to kiss him and thinks he’s sweet. Like—wow. Okay.

He laughs nervously, clasping a hand to his mouth. “Oh my god, maybe this is a bad idea.”

Poppy smiles and stands on her tiptoes, laying a hand on her heart where her mark is branded. “Nah, it’s okay to be nervous. I’m nervous too. It can be weird to kiss a friend.”

His cheeks hurt from how much he’s blushing. “Do you kiss friends often then? Am I  going to be another notch in your belt?”

She wraps her arms around his neck and he places his hands awkwardly on her waist, barely touching the fabric of her shirt.

“Maybe, but I promise it’ll be painless.”

“I don’t know. I feel like I’m going to die.”

She laughs. “You seemed pretty confident when you thought it was all a dream,” she teases.

He casts his sight downward, focusing on the title of her floor. “Well, you know, it was a dream. You said those kinds of things are normal.”

She leans up and whispers in his ear, “Yeah, they are. It happens, bud. Now, close your eyes.”

He takes a deep breath and does what she says, eyes shut and the world falls away to darkness. Like in the dream, her thumbs stroke the apples of his cheek. Her hands smooth his jawline, her fingers tracing his lips.

Branch is on fire, burning from the inside out as he waits. He—doesn’t know how to make the first move. Is he even allowed to make the first move? Oh god, what if he starts laughing again and—

He giggles. Actually giggles. High pitch and unattractive. There he goes. Again. It’s awful. He opens his eyes and Poppy is attempting to scowl at him, but failing.

“Shhhh. Stop laughing. I’m being very serious here,” she snorts.

“I can’t—oh god, Poppy. This is so awkward.”

“Shush you,” she orders, pinching his shoulders.

Branch shakes his head, unable to stop smile. He’s about to say something when—  

There’s a gentle pressure on his lips, a soft mouth moving against his. Branch responds a bit, Poppy kissing him slightly more as her arms snake around his neck again. He—has no thoughts. Not as long as this is happening, the gentleness of her kiss, the kindness in her hands, the moment seems to be lasting for infinity is only a few seconds long.

She breaks apart and leaves him with one last peck before unwinding her arms. Slowly opening his eyes, he finds Poppy to be beaming up at him, a blush dusting her cheeks. Happiness sings through the air.

“See, you didn’t die,” she cheerfully tells him.

Covering his face with his hands, he mumbles. “No, but I feel—”

Delighted. Happy. Swooning. Joyful. Pleased. Wonderful.

“—embarrassed.”

Poppy pats him on the chest. “Out of all the things that have happened this morning, this is what you feel most embarrassed about?”

He nods.

“Oh, Branch,” she laughs, a smile in her voice. “Come on, let’s eat and go see what you can do.”

He uncovers his face as Poppy pulls out her chair.  He takes a deep breath, composing himself as he does the same.

Fact: Branch is Poppy’s familiar.

Fact: Branch wants to continue to be Poppy’s familiar.

Fact: Poppy wants to fall in love with her familiar.

Conclusion: Branch cannot, for whatever reason, continue to be her familiar.

(She deserves better and that’s a fact.)

* * *

Breakfast reminds her a lot of a middle school dance, Poppy decides. Branch on one side the table, her on the other, conversation small between them. He can’t look her in the eye, still beet-red in his cheeks. She’s still surprised he let her do it.

Only if she wanted to, he said. Dear lord, if only he had known what was running through her mind early in the morning. Would he blush even deeper? Is that possible?

(He’s still in her robe, eating breakfast at her table, and who knew that Branch being domestic would hurt this way?)

There’s an art to pushing buttons, Poppy knows, but she likes to think herself as an expert at pushing Branch’s buttons. She wants to unravel him, to see what lurks underneath. Was his dream bubble still about him being happily alone? He seemed—so enthused to see her in the dream last night. As if she was something worth looking at, as if she was all that mattered, as if he had waited his _whole life_ for her.

(She didn’t make that up. It was real. He—was delighted to see her.)

When his hand laid over her heart, she felt something shift inside of her, like puzzle pieces lining up—a hand to hold that was neither too big nor too small. When she kissed him, or tried to kiss him and he giggled. Giggled. It was…the cutest thing she had ever heard.

Has this person been standing in front of her this long and she never noticed? Branch is far beyond a one-dimensional depressing note, and more like a multi faceted diamond is hidden under many layers of Earth. A treasure if you want it and Poppy is wanting...something.

She examines the messiness of his hair, the richness of his skin, the sky of his eyes, the hidden smile that flashes sometimes. There’s an allure to be said in what she doesn’t understand, her heart pounding for the first time in a long while as she wonders what it would be like—with him?

She can still feel the ghost of his kiss on her lips, the moment where he leaned forward and his hands curled into her shirt. Reminiscent memories of the searing hot kisses from the night before to the gentle one that took place a short while ago in reality.  A first kiss unlike any other because it was with him.

She’s—

—being stupid, she reminds herself. Totally stupid. Branch is. Off-limits.

Familiar aside, who knows if these are even her real feelings. She can’t be certain and neither can he and—has he been calling her name this entire time?

“I’m sorry, what? I spaced out.”

Branch rolls his eyes and gestures towards her living room. “I was asking can I go home and shower if you’re going to take one here.”

“Uh, I don’t know, can you?” she smirks.

His face falls flat. “Ha. Ha. Look, Princess, you’re the one who told me I wasn’t allowed to use magic, but I need to use your door. So.”

Realization hits. “Oh! Oh yeah. Um, let’s try.”

Trying is the key word as they stand at her Door. A magical beauty with the most adorable baby pink paint and white flower trim. Standing with her wand, she taps it three times on the frame, before summoning Branch’s door. It takes a few seconds to materialize and she realizes that it seems...more reinforced than usual.

Branch swears under his breath.

“Did you...make this...stronger than it was last time?”

Branch knocks his head steel door. “Yeah. Like two nights ago.”

She groans. “I swear if it's because you saw some dumb documentary about a stupid extinct demon I’m going to smack you.”

He raises his hands in defense. “It wasn’t a documentary. It was actually a study conducted about the rise of necromancy and soul suckers. So. You know. I had to, Poppy. Had to.”

“Yeah, but I don’t have the new magical signature thing you always require for me to open it! And you have a no teleportation zone at your place!”

“Safety first,” he mutters. He rubs a hand behind his neck. “Yeah. About that...can I borrow your wand? Forgot my key at home, since I totally planned on waking up in _your bed_ this morning.”  

Ignoring what she suspects is sarcasm, she clutches her wand and grimaces. “It’s...it’s a hornbeam so Calpurnia doesn’t like other people.”

“You named your wand Calpurnia?” he snorts.

Poppy scoffs. “No, she named herself Calpurnia. She’s a regal lady, Branch. Who loves to party and have fun. Cal knows how to work it.”

He raises a brow, arms crossed. “It’s a wand, Poppy. What does it know?”

Poppy mimics him under her breath before caressing the wand and giving it a little kiss. “Be good for mama, okay, baby?” Shooting Branch a glare, she adds. “And be careful with her. Don’t blame me when she rejects you because you’re not me. You know. Hornbeams and all.”

“Yeah, yeah. If she’s anything like her owner than she’s going to want to constantly bother me.”

Poppy sniffs. “Fine, no more bothering for you.”

She catches a hint of a smile. “Please and thank you.”

Ever so carefully, Poppy offers Branch her wand and watches in terror as he snatches it from her hand. Oh, dear this is...this isn’t going to end well, is it? Taking a few steps back, Poppy places a protective charm over both of them. Just in case.

Her free hand is a little rusty, but once she sees the sparks rain down over Branch, relief is instant. Her magic moves a little different, more wave like than The shackled way it had done before. Almost as if it is also experiencing the same giddy freedom she is—who knew that sharing one’s magic would be that it has a larger range of effect?

Branch rolls Calpurnia between his hands, trying out the balance of the wand and the length. His fingers run down a side and he smirks. “So, don’t know if you know this, _ma’am_ , but I come from a family of wand makers.”

Poppy shakes her head, amused at Branch’s confidence. “Actually, no. I was not aware, _sir_.”

He nods and walks towards her. “Yeah, on my dad’s side. They’re all wand makers. And fun fact, I can to use any wand.”

“Ah, should I bow down to your prowess, Your Majesty? Silly me for thinking that you’d be rejected by a wand type notorious for not liking others.”

Branch wrinkles his nose and offers his arm instead. “Nah, but come here. I’m enacting emergency hug time.”

Poppy squints at him. “Emergency hug time? You? What now?”

Branch huffs and closes the distance between them, pulling her close to his side. “Your free hand is awful and I don’t know what’s going to happen. I’d feel better if you’re near me in case of blowback.”

Oh god. He’s really holding on to her. Her cheek presses against the bare skin of his chest. The part not covered by her robe. Has she not suffered enough today? Can the universe give her a break? Poppy doesn’t think she can handle any more of these whiplash emotions.

Branch takes a deep breath and raises his other arm. “Okay, here goes nothing,” he says. Lifting the wand to shoulder height, he flicks it in a triangle moment. “Sign Argis.”

Poppy watches the spell be cast in slow motion. Branch’s voice echoes through her living room, blue magic shooting from her wand, bathing them in its glow. A spell that usually manifests as one key, becomes thousands in this moment, all aimed straight at the Door at an alarming speed.

She doesn’t see the spell make contact with the door, Branch shielding her from the blast. He crushes her to him as a magic bounces and ricochets around her living room, fizzling out only after it loses inertia. The moment is over in a second, at the speed of two blinks as the dust settles around them, her living room half destroyed from the impact.

Branch lets out a low whistle as he lets her go. “Holy shit.”

Poppy resists letting her jaw hang and steals her wand back, going to work right away to fix the room as best as she can. Trinkets and furniture fly back into place and cleaning supplies sweep up the wayward dust. Minus the door, which she refuses to look at, everything is back in its rightful place. Including her wall.

Turning around, she smirks, feeling herself with a dangerous edge. Cocking her hip to one side, she points a finger in Branch’s direction. “Can I say that I told you so?”

Branch bites his lip and nods in defeat. “Yeah, you told me so.”

Satisfied with his answer, Poppy finally peers around him and gasps. Her door—or rather, Branch’s door—is dangling on by the hinges. Her door frame though, is slanted and not okay whatsoever. She doesn’t even want to think about how much it’s going to cost to fix this. The spellwork is going to be insane.

 Branch comes up to her side, her robe folded neatly over an arm, leaving him topless. Which in other circumstances she might do a double take, but there’s no way she can pay attention to anything else than her dismantled gateway.

Branch breaks the silence first.

“So, did you know that on my mother’s side, we’re carpenters?” he says. When Poppy doesn’t respond, he tries again, more thoughtful. “Poppy, hey, I’m extremely sorry, but I promise to fix this.”

Poppy sighs, rubbing a hand down her face. “It’s cool, dude. We’ll figure it out.”

Branch shakes his head. “No, I swear, I promise to personally fix this...just…” he says. “I don’t think you’re going to be able to take it off my setting or vice versa.”

That makes Poppy snort. Of course, why should she be able to close a gateway connection with her familiar? That would be crazy. Nope, thank you, universe. Now, they’re also impromptu roommates of sorts.

She hangs her head low, sighing. “This is why your little force field should allow teleportation. Can’t I at least get teleportation access? Would that be so hard?”

“Yeah. That…” Branch trails, already getting lost in thought. “I’ll work on it.”

Poppy takes a deep breath and straightens herself. “Okay. Let’s forget showering. I need to let off steam.”

After putting on some shoes, she crosses the other side of the room.

Branch follows her motions, standing helplessly in her living room, only able to drape her robe over the back of her couch. “What are you doing?”

She smirks once there is enough distance between them. “You’ll see,” she singsongs.

He peers at her with skepticism, but his face morphed into horror as she starts charging at him at top speed. “No, no! Bad Poppy! No!”

She screams with delight as she launches herself into the air, arms extended. “Catch me!”

He doesn’t get a chance to complain as she loops her arms around his neck as his arms hold up her legs and lower back. She feels a bit like a heroine on a romance novel cover: a pretty girl being held bridal style by a shirtless guy.

Step aside, Fabio.

“Oomph,” he grunts. “Why?” Branch questions, glaring.

She shrugs, giggling. “You could always drop me if you want.”

Branch rolls his eyes and shifts her to hold her better. “Then you’d just do it again.”

Letting out a happy sigh, Poppy rests her temple on his shoulder, letting her fingers touch the ends of his hair. The hum that rests next to her heartbeat sings louder.

There’s a softness in this moment, in the one where Branch carries her over the threshold into his home, the pink mark on his skin an illuminated beacon of what is to follow. Promises exchanged echo in her mind—promises of _yours_ and _mine_. There’s a softness in this moment, in the simplicity that it exists, and Poppy holds on a bit tighter, ignoring the way she wants to cry.

 _I’m home_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter has been a beautiful shitshow. like seriously. i love it so much. 
> 
> thank you so much for reading and leaving reviews! they've been great! let me know what you think will happen next :)
> 
> follow me on tumblr at obbsessedturtle if you want to chat! :)


	3. i'm wishing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hello feelings. nice to see you with your many hats.

There’s an instant shift in temperature as Branch crosses the threshold from Poppy’s house into his own. The air is thinner, less cozy compared to hers. Of course, his upper level is sparse—only a small mudroom and his now broken Door.  Life, he thinks, does not burst from the seams here, no overwhelming quirky characteristics to demand attention like _her house_.

Just a cold and dark space, carved into a mountain, hidden—tucked away— _his—_    

Poppy wiggles in his arms and it strikes him then, with stunned realization, that he’s still holding her. How he forgot, he’s not quite sure, but he did. Bashfully, he sets her down, ducking his head as he mumbles a quiet apology. Thank God he doesn’t unceremoniously drop her while panic seizes control of his muscles. Branch ignores the tingling sensation at her touch, electricity in her fingertips that skim down bare chest and arms.

“Thanks,” she whispers.

The sound snags in the moment, cut off with soft “s” on a jagged edge. Reality fingers its way from the haze, catching the corners of past dreams and tearing them apart.  It pricks at him under his sternum, under the mark, and under his heart. Sharp nails sting, leaving messages of _is this really right?_

( _Yes,_  his heart says. _Yes_ , it affirms, _the mind just has to catch up a bit_.)

They lock eyes, a blush blooming across his neck and face much like the sun that lays over his heart. His heart skips a beat as his mind cyclones with chaos. Awkwardness slowly creeps over them as Poppy gives him a weak smile and plays with the end of her hair. Neither says anything, both suspended in this moment, before Branch looks away first.

He swallows words he won’t say—doesn’t know how to say, can’t form them with the tip of his tongue to sound off the back of his teeth. A mouth made useless as both heart and mind war for dominance of the situation, as dreams and reality battle to take precedence.

The air stills with silence, pulled taut between them. No one gave him the talk, you see, gave no advice for future reference in case he became some witch’s familiar. There was no warning about what to do when you wake up in the bed of a childhood friend’s and find out that you’re bonded to her. That you share her magic.

That you are now a part of her. An anchor, a siphon, an experience that tethers her to living rather than death.

How is he supposed to attempt a conversation when that happens? When the impossible truth exists as he exists hits him. That this is real and the world isn’t cozy and warm as her house because she’s there and she’s beautiful and—

Poppy taps his shoulder. “Branch?”

He blinks, fading outlines reconfigure the world into focus. Poppy stares at him, concern in the pressure of her touch.  A jolt of electricity spirals from the warmth of her hand into his bones.

She edges closer, wearing a brave smile. “Hey, we’re gonna be okay. I know it.”

Her words are like a moving spell, cast with thoughtfulness and a heart full of hope. There’s conviction in the way she omits _I think_ or _I believe_ , her understood _I know_ ringing with a positive unknown.

Which is always better than a negative, _deadly_ , and disastrous unknown.

Much better.

Branch inhales through his nose, keeps the air trapped in his lungs, before slowly exhaling. Poppy rolls her eyes with apparent amusement, stiff shoulders softening as her arms hang at her sides. She curls one shoulder into a stretch and dramatically rolls her other arm out then doing the same to another side. Her palm remains outstretched towards him, her fingers beckoning.

“Shall we?”

And just like that, the world swoons into motion, caught in her currents as her smile twinkles brightly.

Branch scoffs and pushes her hand away, turning on his heel towards the front door, eyes set on a dark green pullover on a peg. Time speeds up with him, the frozen temperature that had encapsulated the mudroom warming as seconds tick.

He grabs the hoodie and shoves himself into it, laughing at himself for finally being properly decent for the first time since he woke up. Truly, frilly pink robes do not count.

Tying his shoes, he gestures for Poppy to follow. “C’mon, let’s put this whole magical steroid claim to the test.”

Poppy snorts and sticks her hands in her sweatpants pockets, her wand poking out from the black fabric. “Yeah,” she says, jutting a thumb behind her, “like our broken doors aren’t enough proof.”

“I’m gonna blame Calpurnia. She’s the culprit.”

Poppy gasps and leaps to stand in front of him, her expression twisted with scandal. “How dare,” she accuses. “You take that back right now!”

She braces herself in front of the door, putting all of her weight against it.

Branch cocks a brow and uses an arm to prop himself on the frame. “Oh, what are you gonna do? Scrapbook me into apologizing? ” he taunts, leaning forward.

She pouts and digs her heels in the ground. She raises her chin up high, her lips pressed flat together. “Hey! Just so—” she starts to rant, but—

—she never gets to finish, Branch steps in closer and turns the door handle. What he does not account for is that opening the door behind her requires that he nearly fold himself over her, her shoulder digging into his chest. She ceases movement, surprises lingering in the air, curling delicately into his nostrils until he feels like sneezing. (It reminds him of campfire smoke.)

Poppy yelps as the door gives way and she missteps backward, arms thrown out to steady herself. She takes a deep breath and runs her fingers through her bangs, haphazardly combing them to the side. Another breath and she composes herself, then glares at Branch.

“Really?” She motions, her hand fluttering between them. “Was that necessary?”

Branch shrugs, wearing a wide pleased smile. “Totally.”

Poppy shakes her head, shaking him off as she inspects his front yard.

“I’ve never been here in the morning,” she says, awe thick in her voice.

Branch ambles towards her, with the sun that shifting through tall pines. Streams of light speckle soft ground, dewy from a peaceful night. Faint forest sounds sing in the distance, from birdsongs to babbling brooks.Cool mountain air chills his lungs in the way it always does, this moment like hundreds of others.

Only...only more memorable and striking when Poppy faces towards him, her face glowing with golden sunlight as her halo. He is reminded of dreams again, of longing, of hope—

He digs his nails in his palms to stop himself from reaching out to her.

“So, magic, right?”

Poppy blinks, wonderment fading. Nodding, she stands straighter, hands clasped behind her back and inspect him. “But I didn’t see you grab a wand?”

Branch pauses, his eyes towards the ground, lost in brief thought. The answer is actually caught under his shoe, rolls under his sole with blaring obviousness. He laughs to himself as he bends down and picks it up, and waggles it from side to side.

“Look, I found a branch. This’ll do.”

Poppy quirks her brows together in confusion for a moment, then slaps her palm to her forehead. “No, no! No branches!” she yells, but there’s a tinge of laughter to her voice.

He shrugs, feeling proud. “But I’m a Branch.”

She puts her hands on her hips and sighs.“You know, you’re always serious about the stupidest things and then you’re silly about the important things. C’mon, Branch. Go get a real wand and we’ll talk. Don’t you remember our Doors? They've blown off the darn hinges!”

He rolls his eyes as he tosses the faux-wand away and heads back into his house.

(The one time he makes a joke and she doesn’t laugh. He pretends it doesn’t bother him, but it kinda does. In that stupid way that only Poppy can bother him.)

(He doesn’t see is that when turns to he leaves, she smiles, giggling quietly to herself. Her heart feels warm in the mountain chill, the heat traveling through her veins and keeps the cold away)

He does have...one wand, the thinks. One wand at least that seems to fit Poppy’s bill of extreme importance. It was made by the best wand maker he ever knew. The only one who mattered in his opinion.

It’s in the back of his closet, next to photo albums and—

There’s a tug and he’s turned promptly around, Poppy’s face greeting him with an exasperated and weary grin.

“Poppy? I thought you told me—”  

She cuts him off. “We can use Calpurnia again. I’ll teach you.”

He looks up the heavens and sighs. “Poppy, I’m serious—”

“And I’m serious too,” she says. She squeezes his hand. “Look, trust me. We’re outside. Let’s see what happens. Thought you were _always crazy prepared_ ,” she taunts.  

Pink eyes bore into blue until he looks away first, exhaustion rolling off him “Yeah, sure. Whatever.”

Poppy perks up then, a dazzling grin warm and kind. She steps forward, her wand clasped lovingly in her hand.

“But Branch?”

He stills and looks over his shoulder. “Yes?”

“Promise me that you’ll make a wand, okay? You might just need it.”

He clicks his tongue. “Yeah, I promise, Poppy.”

She gives him a soft smile. “Thank you.”

The mark on his chest hums with contentment, right next to his heartbeat. Branch feels the gentle lull of comfort settle into place as he turns around and flexes his fingers. Poppy gives him her wand for the second time this morning and he carefully takes it, knowing better now than to underestimate it.

“What?” he starts, hesitant to have a repeat of earlier. “What do I need to do?”

Poppy giggles as she joins him at his side. “What can you always do? What’s as easy as breathing? Let’s try that.”

Branch ponders for a moment and he shrugs. “Grow trees.”

“...grow? Trees?”

He gestures around them, his expression completely nonchalant. “Yeah, did ya think that Mother Nature grew all these?”

“You and your wood, I swear.”

They both laugh and then freeze.

Poppy’s face is bright red. “Not _your_ “wood” per se. Not like you talk about your dick all the time! You don’t talk about it at all! Didn’t even feel it this morning! And what I mean is that I’m sure it’s great—”

Branch stares at her, mouth gaping. “Oh my god, why is your mind always in the gutter?”

“Why is _yours_?”

“You’re the one who just said you think my dick is great!”

“You know, most men would find that to be a compliment!”

“Why are we friends?” Branch asks. “What did I do in a past life to be verbally assaulted this way?”

“Probably murdered someone, man.”

“Gee. Thanks.”

She smiles. “You’re welcome! Now grow some trees!”

Branch readies himself, about to start the spell when he looks over at Poppy and asks. “Before I do something stupid. Again. Do you have any tips?”

“Think happy thoughts! Happiness is important!”

“I don’t do happy,” he deadpans.

Poppy clicks her tongue, cocking her hip to the side. “Just try, Branch. Be happy for one moment in your life. Pretend really hard or—or channel me! Channel your own Poppy Power!”

Branch narrows his eyes. “No. No Poppy Power. I’m trying not to, I don’t know, _die_!”

Poppy groans and scoffs. “Fine, Mr. Sourpants. Just. Happy things then.”

He sighs and closes his eyes.

Happy things, Poppy said. Happy things like his grandma’s baking on warm sunny afternoons. He’s barely able to see over the counter, but he grins to himself watching the cookies cool on the rack.

Someone brushes the top of his head and Grandma Rosie smiles at him, taking his little hand in hers. The texture of her palm is rough, but warm, a place to call home.

She summons a tree straight from the ground and Branch stands in wonder at a large sprouting rowan tree with leaves and branches that go on forever. Little red fruits pepper the green and his grandmother snaps off a branch she thought good enough, beginning her work right away.

(He wasn’t lying. He does have one, the best wand, the only wand worth having—)

“A rowan wand is best for complicated protection spells blessed by happy trolls—for good luck,” his grandmother says, “because who is more positive than a troll?”

Love circles around him as she hums a song as old as the infinite tree rings of their family. Afternoon spring sun dapples through leaves and he can’t tell if the warmth is from the rays or his grandma.  Branch snuggles closer, drifting off to sleep, the only sound is Grandma Rosie whittling his new wand for when he’s old enough—

Happy things, Poppy said. Happy things, happy things, happy things, but—it’s hard to stay happy when she never gets to see him cast his first spell, is not at his side when he enters the academy, not with him when his hands become calloused like hers and—

His eyes snap open, breath ragged in his chest.

Poppy is at his side in an instant. “Branch?”

He shakes his head. “I—I—” his mouth is dry, his heart breaking all over again. “I can’t do this. No.”

Her hand is an anchor on his back, tethering him to now. “No? No what?”

He jerks away from her touch. “This. Poppy. Fucking this.”

“I—”

He whirls on her. “I just—,” he starts, his mouth pulled in an odd smile. He grabs at his hair.

“Branch, look at me.”

He shakes his head and Poppy braves forward.

“Poppy, this isn’t right. You know this isn’t right. I can’t. I can’t be your familiar. No.”

She swallows. “No?”

“No, Poppy. I can’t. This is insane. I know this morning has been up and down, but no. I can’t.”

Poppy stares at him for a moment, her mouth in trembling fragile line. He _knows_ what his means to her, but _he can’t_. He can’t, can’t, can’t, can’t be the happy things she deserves when he isn’t even able to think back on happy memories.

There’s no way he’s stable enough to protect her, to help her, to—

“I’ll break the bond,” she says, her voice low. “I’ll ask my dad when he comes home tomorrow. Promise.” Her voice shakes and Branch’s heart twists. “But--but!” She says, getting louder. “You’re still my familiar right now and we have to do this. I’ll figure out how to end this contract, but for now, you’re still mine.”

He swallows. “Yours?”

She nods, concern peeking through a neutral expression “Yes, mine. And—and we still have to test your magic. I’m sorry, bud. No other way.”

“But happy things, Poppy,” he whispers harshly. “You don’t—”

She grabs his face in two hands and drags her down to look at him. The world stops moving. “It’s been a long morning. I know. I can feel it too. Everything is fucked up, but I will help you, I promise.”

He bites a sound at the back of his throat.

(How is she? How can she? Be so perfect, be so kind, be so wonderful?)

Poppy gives him a wane smile. “It’s gonna be okay. I’m here. Focus on me, can you do that?”

He mutely nods as his reply.

Branch closes his eyes, gripping the wand. Poppy strokes her thumbs on the apples of his cheeks. The warmth in her hands binds him to this moment, the scent of strawberries and cookies and Poppy. She loves him. This is fact. She’s not mad at him. This is also fact.

Poppy is a blessed thing, Branch realizes, his heart swimming with adoration, lost in childhood laughter and hugs. He’s known her forever it seems. Since a little girl rounded a tree and crashed right into him when she was no more than three.

He chases after memories of her instead, the few between bright moments that speckled monotone gray. The song in her voice, the joy in her smile, the endearing calm of her friendship and—

—he’s a teenager when he realizes it, one day after school. The world tinges orange with fading afternoon autumn sunlight drifting slowly down the horizon. The two walk side by side, Poppy endlessly chattering about the day’s events. A mundane activity repeated countlessly before in their friendship.

It’s a moment when she pauses, the scuffle of her footsteps silencing as she notices a stray leaf in her hair. Her pink eyes widen and in the sun, they look to be rimmed with violet with glittering gold specks. She giggles to herself as brushes it away and continues telling her story, her smile mirror a gorgeous golden sun.

But it is the after a moment that his heart skips, it thuds, it rams against his chest as something inside shifts. It is the moment after where he realizes that Poppy is breathtaking, her voice a gentle constant, a narrator for their prolonged relationship. A feeling he can’t name, but the letters dance upon the tip of his tongue, forming a three-word phrase.

Poppy will later catch him staring and will question, but he will refuse to tell her anything. Unwilling to voice his realization out loud, unable to breathe that truth in the world. Words have magic, he knows, but he’s not ready to see what power those exact words can produce just yet.

But now—

Things are different, he thinks when he hears her gasp. He can say he loves her in a way that she loves him too. A friendship that is worth something more than she’ll ever know. A lifeline for him when things aren’t going according to plan.

Happy things, Poppy said, and Branch doesn’t think anything makes him happier than Poppy’s friendship.

He takes a deep breath, letting the magic flow out of him. From the middle of his heart to the tip of the wand, he releases the very happiness Poppy requested. The magic rushes like an endless roaring river, sweeping away the despair that rooted itself in his stomach. Once satisfied, Branch slowly opens his eyes, he’s greeted by  a scent of lavender, signifying Poppy’s relief. And more campfire smoke, meaning her surprise.

“Hey, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” she whispers.

Branch’s heart whirlwinds between conflicting emotions: fear, love, hope, terror. A never-ending cycle that presses down upon his chest. For now, though, he’s caught between a shaded ombre of fear, love, and hope.

He shrugs, though looking over her shoulder, he furrows his brows in confusion. “I don’t—there are no trees?”

Poppy sends her eyes downwards, her cheeks a bit pink. “No, no trees, but maybe…”

He follows her line of sight and sucks in a breath.

True, there are no trees. But that does not mean he didn’t do anything, for at their feet, sprawling across his yard, over the top of his house, on rocks and up trees are poppies. For miles in every direction. Bright red poppies swaying in a gentle morning breeze.

His face turns just as red.

(Oh. My. God. Can he not? Just. Oh god.)

“Got something on your mind, bud?”  

Denial is instant. “Nope.”

New plan: time to curl up and die. That’s it. Today’s death will be by his own hand. No need to let Poppy stain hers.

Poppy wilts and takes a step back, her mouth trembling again. Her fingers dig into her biceps, hugging herself close. His quick dismissal echoes his rejection and space between the two of them is not as comfortable as they were children now.

And here the whirlwind cycles to be more of fear, love, and terror instead. Hope tossed to the side for there is no hope, he’s already said no. She already made a promise. Words have magic, Branch knows.

The morning weighs on him as Poppy gazes off into the distance. “The flowers are beautiful,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you for trying.”

Calpurnia burns in his hand and he offers it. “Of course.”

Poppy takes it, but their fingers do not touch. Does that? Does that mean something? He squashes down the need for wanting an answer.

Poppy rolls her wand in her hand. Almost as if she’s decided something. There’s an outline of determination at her edges, something dangerous, something unknown. She then gives him a bright grin with glowing fanfare. The world smells of citrus. “Well, I’ll ask my Dad tomorrow about the bond, okay?”

Branch frowns. “Okay.”

She touches his cheek, happiness bathing her in soft pink. Branch feels completely at ease. This is normal. Completely normal.

(No, not really. This is far from normal.)

This...this is not right, he knows. Something is off, but he can’t pin just what—the tension rested in between his shoulder blades, knotting his heart, caught in his throat dissolve into nothingness. All his fears melt away, all his insecurities disappear in the wind.

Peace sinks into his skin from Poppy’s voice. “Thanks again for being an amazing friend, Branch. I mean it.”

“Anytime, Poppy,” he slurs.

His knees buckle and Poppy gently helps him sit on the ground. She lays him down so that all he can see is the bright blue sky, puffy clouds painted across the expanse. Her knuckles graze his cheek and for a moment his world is engulfed pink.

“Sleep,” she sings. “You’ve had a long morning. Dream good things.”

Branch smiles wide, his body feeling languid almost like he was in a bath. Sunshine beats down on him as Poppy’s voice sends tranquility down his spine to his fingertips. She sings a song in a language he doesn’t know, but it’s beautiful.

The edges of the world became dark as his eyelids become heavy, trying to chase glimpses of Poppy. The world melts away when darkness greets him like an old friend as poppy petals blanket him.

He dreams of Poppy again.

* * *

Pressure pricks behind her left eye, traveling up the slope of her forehead. It flows down the fissures of her skull, slides along the cracks before converging on her second vertebra. And yet, she still smiles, refusing to look weary, refusing to admit defeat to shining lights and noisy atmosphere. Bright lights and noise go hand in hand with event planning after all.

She shouldn’t have…she shouldn’t have done that, to Branch, she knows. She shouldn’t have manipulated him. But—but, there had been another breakdown coming, another moment wherein the longer she stayed, the more surely he would have shattered.

(Or maybe she would have shattered.)

No, Poppy. _I can't_ , he said. _This is insane._

And maybe because she’s been delusional her whole goddamn life, but maybe—maybe—she had _hoped_ , she had hoped that things would be okay. He seemed okay at first! Sure, there was some panicking, but who wouldn’t panic just for a moment?

Maybe her house was like a dream. A liminal space where everything made sense because it was ruled by nonsense. The joy in her chest is so painful, his mark a guilty pleasure on her skin. God, if only, couldn’t she just—

(She did it once, right? Made him bend to her will. It was so easy. She’s a siren witch. She does it all the time. To make people happy. Make them feel good—)

She digs the heel of her palm into her eye to relieve the pressure. No, she can’t. She will, she thinks with a heavy heart, set Branch free. Pumping a crowd with endorphins is not the same as brainwashing someone.

Wow, it truly has been a long morning if this is how far she’s sunk.

( _There will be times, Poppy dear, where you’ll want to use your powers for the wrong sort of thing. That’s normal, to want, sometimes. Everyone wants to be in control and everyone sometimes thinks about controlling others, but the real test of your character is how you won’t take the easy route._

_You’re a good girl with a loving heart, honey. You could destroy cities and force people to bend to your will, but you won’t. I know that. You’d rather just hug them to death.)_

She lets out a breathy laugh. If only her mom could see her now.

She sighs and tries to focus in on the conversation again, King Gristle babbling something about wing-dingles or hot wings. Close enough.

“So, yeah. Pizza.”

Poppy blinks. “Pizza?”

“Yes!” the young King enthuses. “We should have pizza at the gala!”

Poppy maintains a civil smile. “You want pizza at your gala?”

He shrugs, dismissing her with a flap of his hand. “Well, we Bergans are salty food lovers! And pizza is a gift from the sky above.”

King Gristle says it with such conviction that Poppy struggles to reply. Words refuse to come out of her mouth, her lips twisting in disagreement, but what is she to say?

A tall and imposing woman with the famous Bergan purple shift to her skin stands behind the king. She places her hands on the king’s shoulders, much like how a guardian would to a young charge.

“Oh my, King Gristle,” the woman coos. “How about you leave the menu to me? Your most beloved Chef, correct?”

The king blinks then nods in agreement. “Yes,” he says. “I guess that would be best.”

The Royal Chef smiles, her crooked teeth both alarming, yet somehow endearing. That’s the thing about Bergans, they’re mostly human and somewhat not. A bit of something ghoulish in them. Not all monsters bite though.

Poppy extends her hand, relying on friendliness etched into her muscle memory. Even when she’s down, she can’t help but be incandescent. “Poppy King, ma’am. The King’s professional event planner for the upcoming New Year’s Gala. I look forward to working with you.”

The older woman directs her attention towards Poppy and her smile stretches wider. “Ah yes,” she starts. Her fingers wrap around Poppy’s, cold to the touch. “Likewise, Miss King. You may address me as Chef if you’d like. _The_ Royal Chef is such a mouthful after all,” she laughs.

Poppy laughs too, a silent alarm bell ringing that things aren’t just right, but she’s not sure where exactly.

Instead, she focuses on the task at hand and firmly shakes the woman’s hand. “Of course, Chef.”

King Gristle’s glance shifts between the two women, seemingly pleased with this new arrangement. It’s the mostly kingly Poppy has seen him. Arms crossed and assessing the situation. His socks with sandals combo do little for his royal image.   

If only the twins could get their hands on his questionable fashion habits.

A guard catches the King’s attention, leaving Poppy and Chef alone. Without the buffer of the king, Poppy is left completely open to Chef’s examinations, her eyes razor sharps as she judges Poppy from head to toe.

“Got yourself a familiar, eh?”

Poppy stiffens, panic prickling her skin.

Chef chuckles. “I’m a chef after all,” she says. “The air doesn’t taste like chaos the way it usually does with you siren-types.”

Poppy exhales a painful breath. “Yeah. This morning actually.”

Chef's lips curl into an overly friendly smile. “Don’t worry, dear. Your secret will be safe with me.”

Poppy weakly nods, mumbling her thanks.

* * *

 The world is dark, shaded only by various of blacks and grays. Neither sun nor moon rests simultaneously in the sky, the world above bare of stars too. Time stands still as Poppy stands at the world’s edge.

Branch can’t breathe, his heart thundering in his chest. No words come out of his mouth and no matter how hard he tries to move, he doesn’t get closer to her. Life pulses in every fiber of his being, but he stays frozen.

Poppy, despite the grey purveying the dreamscape, remains a gentle muted pink. She turns towards him, a smile on her face and opens her arms wide. Almost as if she’s waiting for a hug, for him, for something he can’t give.

But Branch still does not get closer, the distance between them spanning miles.

She nods her head and speaks, her words echoing across the expanse.

 _You’ll be okay_ , she says.

She arcs backward into an abyss.

* * *

 

Branch jolts away, breath ragged as he grips the sheets. He didn’t fall, he realizes. He didn’t fall, his body firmly planted in his bed and—

The edges of his dreams catch him, his heart blazing under his ribs, watching Poppy disappear over the cliffside. Her smile a gleaming gem in her unspoken goodbye, no fare thee well, no—no persistent stubbornness clinging to the moment as she always does. A beat of silence and then nothing but adrenaline pumping in his veins as the world becomes more awake.

He glances at his alarm clock. It’s well close to midnight, a foggy day forgotten as he tries to recall everything.

Did he—did he just fall asleep? Had he just been at the Registrar hours before and why—why is he so warm?

Looking down, he sees that he’s in his green hoodie—something he never wears to bed and starts to tug at it, discovering he’s not wearing a shirt as well. There’s the fogginess of dreaming, of always dreaming of _someone missing_ and longing and wishing and—it comes like a tidal wave. The dreaminess recedes into ocean waves as the clashing moment of reality comes into play and both worlds converge in a singular moment of ringing clarity.

He awoke in Poppy’s bed this morning, awoke from a dream of a different dream that began in his heart of hearts and— He pulls himself out the sweatshirt and claws at his chest, a blooming pink sun glowing softly in the dim bedroom. A wish spoken out loud, made from dreams, that had lead to a mark upon his actual heart. A glowing sun signifying a singular connection to the one he holds dear.

(He’s forgetting to breathe again. He always forgets to breathe when Poppy is concerned.)

There were first kisses, in real life and in dreams. She kissed him as if he was precious, as if he was worth it, as if he were the answer to her questions. Held him close, stroked his cheeks, kissed him, kissed him, kissed him.

There was magic, awesome power at his fingertips. His thoughts echo the songs of happy things, of Poppy. Of a heart of hearts and happiness and blessed things and memories and—  

Poppies.

Branch jumps out of bed and races towards the ground floor, climbing stairs two at a time. A wave of memories, of moments, of jumbled dreams and distorted reality surge after him as he tears out the front door. Guided by moonlight, the air sings with magic. A charming hum of joy exuding from root to petal for miles in every direction.

The ocean waves shifts into a sea of red flowers, of adoration, screaming for attention at his feet.

Branch squats, digging his hands into his hair.

“Holy. Fuck.”

He remembers the sky, the song luring him to sleep and dreams and—there’s pressure building behind his right eye and he can’t breathe again because of Poppy. It’s always Poppy. In her stupid ways and stupider talents and she drags him, sucks him into her vortex and—

Poppy didn’t need to put a spell on him. Her every gesture, each smile, her entire being from the top of her head to the tips of her toes is witchcraft enough.

Logically, if Branch can muster logic, he should be angry. She had been a damn coward when he had rejected her, he thinks with a hollow laugh. Putting him to sleep like he was a child. Running away from her problems because there was no bright side in the situation for her. He said no.

He meant it.

At the time.

But now?

But now, he doesn’t want to say no. Not when it’s plain to see his affection and maybe, just maybe he can be selfish for a moment. Relish in this connection, give into his heart of hearts and—

(Well, he won’t go that far, but this. This can be good enough for now.)

With an aggravated sigh, Branch rises, his knees cracking. The stars speckle the night sky and remind him of the endless glitter that covers Poppy’s skin. The swell of her cheeks, her hands, her shoulders.

There’s peace in insanity, Branch knows. A calm that when the world is so wrong, that something must be going right. And despite how he got here, Branch thinks, that maybe—just maybe—this is going right.

* * *

 The world is dark, shaded only by various of blacks and grays. Neither sun nor moon rests simultaneously in the sky, the world above bare of stars too. Time stands still as Poppy stands at the world’s edge.

The ocean roars behind her, calls for her to come home, to find peace in its shadows. Her chest aches, longing for something, for _someone_ to fill the empty space.

_Please fill the cracks between you and me._

In the distance, Branch runs towards her, his voice a whisper on the breeze. A mumbling phrase drowned out by the sea below her, by the future that awaits her. Poppy shutters each second the gap between them doesn’t close, the length between the two of them longer than a lifetime.

She smiles despite herself. She doesn’t know what else to do. Feels helpless, feels hopeless. So, despite the longing, despite the pain and mouths the words _you’ll be okay_. It takes only one step and she’s falling off the cliff side. Her arms spread wide to catch the wind between her fingers, but no wings sprout from her back. She descends from bright suns and brighter moons. A journey in reverse, a rewind on what’s she’s done.

Poppy closes her eyes to welcome the pending darkness, allows herself to be swallowed whole by the ocean.

* * *

 

Poppy wakes with a scream, cold water splashing over her face. She pants heavy on her couch, wiping the water from her cheeks to the sound of ugly laughter. Fear settles only for a second before she sees who’s here, then irritation washes over her instantly.

“Branch!” she snaps, gesticulating wildly. “What in the hell? One moment I’m minding my own business, asleep! And then—then—you decide to dump water all over me? Like, really, dude? Really?”  

She huffs, annoyance stinging the air at his smug expression. Is today over yet? Can today just be over? Glancing down at her watch, she finds that it’s 11:55 P.M. Great. Just. Great. Not even the summer solstice, and this is probably, most definitely the longest day ever.

Branch waits a beat, before sitting on the edge of her couch, his hands in his jacket pockets. His smirk turns slightly kind, but mischief is still there. “Payback’s a bitch,” he says. “That’s what you get for putting me to sleep.” He stresses the last sound and scoffs. “Like I’m some stray dog.”  

Poppy groans and resists flopping down again. She stares at the baubles on her bookcase to avoid making eye contact, though Branch’s shit-eating-grin stands out in the corner of her eye. “Look, that—that was _wrong_ ,” she admits, hands up in surrender. “I shouldn't have done that and I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry…but! But!”   

“Poppy! You can’t say you’re sorry and then try adding a ‘but’! It doesn’t work that way!”

Poppy whines, squirming on the couch. “I know, I know. I just—at the time, it made sense? You kinda rejected me and were having a meltdown?”

She phrases it as a question. Questions are safe. Gives time to Branch to confirm or deny depending on the state of his pride.  

Branch lets out a deep breath. “O-okay. You’re not--not wrong. Entirely. Both those things did happen. But!” he adds, his voice going higher. “There was a lot going on this morning!  Like, uh, like finding out I’m kinda your soulmate thing person whatever! So, yeah! I did. Have a meltdown. That was completely warranted,” he punctuates.

The space between them still as his apparent truth hangs over them. Oh god, this is awkward. Beyond awkward. Way to go, Poppy. That’s what you get for trying to call him out. He calls you out and really. He’s...he’s more right.  

“However,” Branch says as he stands, the word punched with finality. He moves to kneel in front of her, hovers close—much more in her personal space than usual. “I’m going to promise to try,” he says quietly.

She blinks.

“Try? Try what?”

(A part of her knows, a part of her knows, a part of her knows! But a bigger part of her, one that is scared and afraid and doesn’t want to be rejected needs to hear it, needs it said out loud. Needs confirmation.)

He averts his eyes. “This whole familiar thing,” he whispers. “I’ll give it a go.”

She shoots forward in her seat and almost knocks into his forehead. “Really? Seriously? You’ll try?”

Her heart bangs fiercely in her chest, the beat caught in her veins as joy patiently waits behind closed doors to explode.  

Branch falls back on his butt and hits her coffee table. “Watch it, you harpy!” he scolds. Rubbing a hand behind his neck, he shyly meets her gaze.“But yeah, I’ll see if I can do it. We’re already tangled up.”

Poppy can’t help herself, she throws herself at him in a bear hug. “Oh my god, Branch! I just—I just—”

She’s not going to cry, she swears. She will bawl in private later with her stuffed animals and pop music. But for now? Now she’s going to feel and be happy and just—

“Yeah, yeah. I know. You love me. You’re basically shoving a bakery up my nose by the way,” he says with a playful chide. “Seriously, what is the deal with your scent thing? Like is it the same for everyone or…?”

She giggles and lets go, the world shifting a bit more right. “Sometimes. Kinda depends on how they make me feel, you know. She pauses before wondering. “Why do I smell like a bakery?”

Branch is thoughtful for a moment.“Just cookies I used to eat as a kid.”

She lets go, peering at him with perk interest. “...what kind of cookies?”

Branch rolls his eyes with good humor. “Now, that’s a secret I’m not telling. I already gave myself to you, what more do you want?”

(Everything. She wants everything. She doesn’t know what that means, but she wants it. She can ask about the details later.)

Poppy’s heart skips a beat as Branch’s jaw snaps shut. Affection explodes from every cell and makes her feel warm. She just—

Well, she loves him. So much.

Branch coughs and looks away. “I do have one condition.”

“Sure, bud. What’s up?”

He chews his words for a moment. “I want to still find out how to break the bond just in case. To give me a peace of mind, you know.”

(It’s okay. That’s definitely not the sound of her heart starting to break. Nope. Definitely not.)  

Poppy tries best not to physically dim, she really does, but she finds her joy a bit dulled down. “No, no. That...that makes sense. The lifetime gig part is kinda scary.”

“Yeah. And I care about you, Poppy. You know that. But this is a huge commitment. And I’ve been roped into this and I need—”

Poppy finds a steely resolve within herself, an ore of strength she’d had to really dig deep for. But she pulls up its traces and threads to fortify it into words of assurance.

“It’s okay. You’ll be okay. Let’s figure this out together...okay?”

A smirk buries into his cheek. “Okay.”

She holds out her hands in invitation, and gingerly Branch clasps her hands.  

“Alright, Branch. In these messed up circumstances, will you be my familiar? Through all the crazy times and weird. Through broken Doors and fixed windows. Through all the ups and downs of my insane life?”

He lets out a surprise laugh. “Sure, whatever, Poppy. I’m freaking yours.”

She grins and brings his knuckles to her lips, leaving invisible kiss prints. He stiffens automatically, but doesn’t let go. She grins at him through her lashes, not caring what this means, but—

“Thank you for being mine,” she says.

The clock then chimes midnight, the day over and beginning as seconds tick towards the future. This odd and unexpected and a complete crazy roller coaster that’s already jumped off the tracks, but Poppy?

Well, she’s never been more excited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND I LIVE.
> 
> let me tell you, this chapter was a piece of work. let me know if you enjoyed the dumpster fire.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this! Thank you so much reading! :) but honestly, this story is a blast. I'm loving all the magic.
> 
> either way, come follow me on tumblr at obbsessedturtle :)


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